


In the Summer of his Years

by starr_falling



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, GFY, Gen, Harm to Animals, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Post Season Two Au, Pre-Slash, Teen Wolf Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 09:30:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starr_falling/pseuds/starr_falling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After months of non-stop supernatural excitement and danger, everything has gone quiet. The Alpha Pack hasn't made a move, Stiles has barely seen Scott since summer started, and there’s only so much research even he can do.</p><p>So when Stiles finds an old chest containing a strange fur and a journal written by his mother, he’s intrigued. But the more he reads, the more he realizes how little he really knew about her. The further he delves into her past, the less he's certain he wants to know the secrets she'd hidden. Secrets that make him question his own identity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [teenwolf_bb](http://teenwolf-bb.livejournal.com/)
> 
> This story would have never been finished without all the amazing support and encouragement from [lindsey_blythe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lindsey_blythe). Thanks so much bb! Also, a big thank you to [oatmealcoloured](http://oatmealcoloured.tumblr.com/) for the fabulous beta. You made this fic much better and, of course, any remaining mistakes are entirely mine own. Title is from [“Peter Kagan and the Wind”](http://www.mit.edu/~endeavor/wind.html) by Gordon Bok.
> 
> And don’t forget to check out the gorgeous [Artwork](http://hydrae.tumblr.com/post/68907306924/art-for-in-the-summer-of-his-years-by) by [hydrae](http://hydrae.tumblr.com/)!

Stiles shoved aside long outgrown winter coats, trying to get a clearer look at the closet floor. His water shoes weren't with the rest of his summer fun lake essentials, and hadn't turned up during the very thorough tossing he'd given his room. The closet under the stairs was the only other place he could think to look for them.

“Good thing I don't live with the Dursleys,” Stiles muttered, finally giving up and just crawling as far into the closet as he could. “I don't think I would've fit in here even when I was eleven.”

Another few minutes of fumbling around had him thoroughly cursing whoever thought tiny unlit closets were a good idea. Giving up on the shoes - he would just have to take his chances and hope he didn't step on anything sharp - Stiles started to maneuver himself back out of the closet. A twist the wrong way sent his elbow slamming into a wall.

“Shit, whoever named that the funny bone must've had a sadistic sense of humor,” he complained.

He was so busy cursing he almost missed the hollow “thunk.” After rubbing the sting out, Stiles knocked against the offending wall. There was a definite thunk. Made sense though, he supposed. That end of the closet was under where the stairs meet the floor, there wouldn't be much room for anything and it would be difficult to clean. Made sense that they'd just walled it off.

Curiosity satisfied, Stiles planted one hand on the wall to push himself back so he could finally get out of the damn closet. Pun totally unintended. He nearly face planted on an old pair of cleats as the wall shifted under his hand.

“The hell?” Stiles asked as he righted himself.

A bit of pressure shifted it further, and Stiles wondered why the paneling wasn't secured. He leaned forward, trying to maneuver so he could use both hands when a loud beep startled him. He jerked forward, head knocking the wall.

“Son of a bitch!” Cursing he wiggled his way out of the closet. The phone beeped a second time before he could extract himself. Once free he blinked to readjust his eyes to a normal level of light, rubbing at the sore spot on his head. He fished his phone out with one hand, checking his messages.

From: Krypto 11:54 am  
Where are you @?

From: Krypto 11:54 am  
Don’t forget suncreen.

Stiles snorted, still surprised that Scott could seem to forget his existence for weeks on end, and then turn around and be oddly thoughtful. He grabbed his bag of shit, double checked that he did indeed have his sunscreen, then rushed out. He wanted to cram in as much bro-time as he could before Scott forgot about him again.

* * *

Stiles parked on the small pullover at the far end of the lake. There was more rock and less beach at this end making it less popular for those seeking relief from the heat. They almost always had the area to themselves. Stiles was only a little surprised to spot Isaac wading in the shallows.

“Hey!” Scott yelled, waving from where he was already swimming as Stiles hopped out of the jeep. Stiles waved back then grabbed his bag and headed over to Isaac.

“Hey,” Isaac greeted shyly. Stiles got the feeling he wasn't sure he should be there.

“Sup,” Stiles nodded, dropping the bag so he could pull off his shirt. He toed off his shoes and refused to be embarrassed by his narrow chest and pasty skin. Isaac joined him on the shore.

“Nothing really,” Isaac said.

“No news on Erica or Boyd?” Stiles asked digging through his bag for the sunscreen he knew was in there, somewhere. He'd double checked before leaving.

“No, we haven't found a trace yet. It's like they just vanished into thin air.” Isaac frowned at his hands pensively.

“Well, they say no news is good news, so there's that.” Judging by the tiny smile that elicited, that wasn't all that comforting. He straightened up, having finally found the sunscreen.

“Thanks by the way,” Stiles made sure to look him in the eye as he said it.

“For what?” Isaac's brow furrowed cutely when he frowned.

“For reminding Scott to invite me.” Stiles didn't look away as he started applying sunscreen.

Isaac blushed cutely too, not at all blotchy like himself. “I don't know what you mean.”

Stiles laughed, “Come on, Isaac. I know Scott. I've known Scott my whole life. One of the things that makes him a great friend is how much he focuses on you. It also means he sucks at being friends with more than one person at a time.” Stiles shrugged. “Before now, he hasn't really had the chance to try. He just needs a little practice is all. Eventually he'll chill and won't feel the need to be with you every second of the day.”

Isaac shifted uncomfortably and looked away. Stiles let him, reached around and tried to apply the sunscreen to his back. After a minute of contortionism he huffed in defeat.

“Do you want me to?” Isaac offered.

“Yeah, thanks man,” Stiles handed over the tube and turned his back. He shivered at the first cool touch of lotion. “You know, any friend of Scott’s is a friend of mine, and if you, like, need a break from Derek's brooding or Peter's,” He paused trying to think of a word that sufficiently described Peter's crazy. “Everything. You're always welcome at my place.”

Isaac stilled, but only for a moment. He didn't say anything just continued applying sunscreen.

“Done,” he said a moment later.

“Thanks,” Stiles turned, accepting the tube back before dropping it on his bag. Stiles smiled at Isaac and Isaac shyly returned it. They both headed for the water. The first cool touch was heaven. Stiles quickly waded out until the water was deep enough to duck under and started swimming to where he had last seen Scott.

Some part of him unclenched, glad that his worries about the whole “Pool Incident” ruining swimming for him were unfounded. He'd tried not to think about it, but he loved swimming so much that he couldn't help but fret. It was one of the things he used to always do with his mother. They practically lived at the lake during the summer; it was how he knew about this barely used spot. He always felt closest to her in the water. He would've been devastated if that had been taken away from him.

Stiles surfaced after a long moment under, blinking water out of his eyes, looking around for Scott and Isaac. He was meet with a small wave instead. He sputtered as it crashed over him. A moment of blinking revealed a smirking Scott.

“Oh, it is on!” Stiles yelled before splashing back. Scott laughed as the water hit him. Before he could retaliate, he was hit by another wave from behind. Isaac shared a smirk with Stiles as Scott flailed.

As Scott turned on Isaac, Stiles took a deep breath and let himself sink beneath the water. After orientating himself he swam down, careful of kicking feet. Once he was below them, he grabbed the nearest set of legs and yanked.

It was hard not to laugh at Scott's flailing as he was pulled under, but Stiles managed to control himself as he rolled away to avoid any errant limbs. He stayed under, circling the other boys as Scott surfaced. Dimly he could hear Scott sputtering and Isaac laughing. Scott yelled something about revenge and dived under.

Stiles easily avoided Scott's grab, swimming around Isaac. He surfaced briefly for air, diving back down, twisting easily to avoid another grab. Scott surfaced again complaining loudly. Stiles rolled his eyes before goosing him and swimming out of reach again. Scott's outraged yelp was nearly drowned out by Isaac's laughing.

Stiles surfaced a good distance away. “Looks like your wolfy powers don't extend to the water, huh?”

Scott narrowed his eyes. “We'll see about that,” he said before lunging toward Stiles. He didn't bother moving, there was plenty of space between them, and Isaac besides. Isaac intercepted him, still laughing. Scott tried to look annoyed but it was obvious he was too happy that Isaac was having a good time. Stiles had never heard him laugh so much, or so freely. Whatever else happened, that alone made this a great day.

“Hey, why don't we race?” Isaac suggested. “See if Stiles can keep up with us.” They shared a smirk, clearly thinking their werewolf speed would work as well in the water. Stiles smothered his own smirk.

“Sure. How 'bout to the big rock and back?” Stiles swam over to them, sliding alongside them. The rock jutted out into the water on the far side of their beach. The distance was maybe twice the length of the pool at school, an easy swim for any of them.

“Yeah.” Scott and Isaac untangled themselves, and after a bit of pushing and splashing, they arranged themselves in a line, far enough apart not to run into each other.

“Ready?” Isaac asked.

“I was born ready.” Stiles said in his best Kurt Russell voice. Scott snorted but nodded.

“Set,” Isaac focused on the rock. “Go!”

Stiles sucked in a deep breath, surging forward. He stroked easily, breath steady, mind quiet for once, feeling only the pull of his muscles and the push of water. He focused only on his goal, the rock, didn't think about anything else; not Scott and Isaac, whether he was winning, not about the disappointed way his father looked at him. Not about Derek, or undead Peter, or the missing betas.

There was only his breath and the water.

Before he knew it, Stiles was back where he'd begun. He looked around, surprised to see both Scott and Isaac several lengths behind him.

“Huh,” he murmured. “I didn't think I'd actually win.”

“Dammit!” Scott yelled as he finally reached Stiles side. “I thought for sure I'd finally beat you.” Stiles shared a look of fond exasperation with Isaac, blithely ignoring his friend's whining.

“Dude, there's no way you'll ever beat me. I am totally the aquatic Flash.”

Isaac snorted. “Don't you mean Aquaman?”

“Uh, no,” Stiles said incredulously. “Aquaman is lame, and the Stiles is awesome.” Scott and Isaac laughed, and Stiles grinned.

“The Stiles is crazy.” Stiles pouted at Isaac. How could he betray their new found brotherhood like that. “But seriously, that was awesome. Why aren't you on the swim team? You'd kill the competition.”

Stiles shrugged as well as he could in the water, turning to float on his back. “Yeah, but that's kinda the problem. There wouldn't really be any competition, and where's the fun in that.”

“Wow, don't sell yourself short there.” Stiles frowned, Scott should really give up on sarcasm; he was too earnest for it.

“Dude, I just made two werewolves look like snails. No way is any normal high schooler gonna be able to keep up with this.” Stiles ignored the muffled laughs coming from Isaac. “Besides, I'd have to wear a Speedo in front of everyone, and the Stiles is not an exhibitionist.”

Isaac laughed outright at that. “Plus, the team sucks. Even if you won every one of your races we'd still lose all our meets.”

“True, and that would make it unfun.” Stiles didn't mention that he couldn't stand the thought of anything ruining the good memories of swimming with his mom. “Plus, no one cares about the swim team. I get more recognition sitting on the bench at lacrosse games then I'd ever get on the swim team, no matter how good I was.”

“Yeah,” Isaac nodded, totally down with their town's hard on for lacrosse. “Hey, we should go to the ocean sometime. Maybe next weekend?”

“Can't.” Stiles shook his head.

“We can go some other time if you're busy.”

“It's not that, I just. I promised my mom I'd stay away from the ocean.”

“What, why?” There was that cute furrow again.

Stiles rolled over and shrugged, ignoring the sympathetic look Scott was shooting him. “I nearly drowned once, when I was like, three or four or something.”

“But,” Isaac looked around at the lake. He honestly looked like a confused puppy.

Stiles laughed. “Mom loved swimming, no way she could've given it up. I think she'd have lived in the water if she could.

“Beside, the lake is okay, no undertows or riptides or whatever. I guess she figured it was safe enough.”

Isaac still looked confused, so Stiles' distracted him by splashing a huge wave of water right in his face. He sputtered indignantly before a devious look crossed his face. Stiles had a brief moment to think better of his actions before he had an armful of werewolf dragging him down. He ended up swallowing a mouthful of water, laughing as he was pulled under.

* * *

On the drive home, tired but feeling good, Stiles didn't realize he'd made the turn off to the old Hale house until he was already halfway there. He considered turning around and going home, but decided to just go with his subconscious. Who knew, maybe his brain had a legitimate reason for going out there.

It wasn't until he parked and climbed out that it occurred to him that someone might be there. Specifically, a certain creepy undead someone. Thankfully, Betty was the only car in sight, and no one seemed to be about.

Well, not at the moment anyway. Stiles walked over to the pile of junk in front of the far end of the porch. Most of the stuff was too burned and blackened to identify, but a large portion of it seemed to be charred and rotten boards. Stiles poked some debris with the tip of his sneaker, backing off quickly when the pile shifted.

It settled after a moment, so Stiles crept back over. Nothing of interest had been uncovered, so he headed up the stairs to the porch. He stopped to stare at the door, wondering why Derek would paint a weird angular version of his tattoo on it. Stiles much preferred the swirly version. And it had nothing to do with it being on Derek's well muscled back. No siree.

Stiles brushed over one of the triskelion's lines, wondering what it symbolized to Derek. He'd read everything he could about triskelions after the first time he'd seen the tattoo. The way it could mean different things to different people was pretty cool, but not really helpful in figuring out the closed mouth werewolf.

The door drifted open at his touch. Stiles debated the wisdom of going inside – for about three whole seconds. His dad was totally right, his curiosity was going to get him killed some day. But he hoped not this day. He peered around but there was nothing much to see at first. He ducked into the room off to the side, giving the stairs a wide berth. Even he wasn't curious enough to trust them to hold his weight.

The room he found himself in was well lit, light streaming in through broken windows and a missing section of the ceiling. There was a burnt up couch pushed to one side, and another, smaller pile of junk. Stiles squatted down for a better look, quickly revising his opinion.

While everything was smoke or water damaged, none of it looked to actually be burnt. There was a wide array of things, from toys to books to what appeared to be a full set of silverware. Stiles picked up a stuffed animal, amused and sad when he realized it was a wolf. He sat back on his heels holding the toy carefully, studying it like he would be quizzed later.

Carefully he placed it back on the pile before picking up a photo frame. The glass was cracked and blackened with soot, but he could just make out the people in it. He used the hem of his t-shirt to wipe it clean. It was a family portrait, nearly a dozen people posed together and smiling at the camera. Stiles kinda remembered most of them, though if he ever knew their names he'd since forgotten.

Off to the side was a much younger Derek, smiling widely and not yet grown into his ears. Stiles ignored the way his chest tightened, and focused on the girl next to him. She wasn't much older than him, and shared his ridiculous cheekbones and dark hair. The light wasn't good enough to see if she also had his eyes, but Stiles thought he remembered that she had.

Stiles laid the photo back down, extra careful to make sure it didn't slip and break more. He stood, dusted his hands on his jeans and turned to go. He didn't get even one step before running into something solid. He yelped and attempted to step back, but a bruising grip on his biceps stopped him.

Derek stepped away from the pile, dragging Stiles with him, not as roughly as he was expecting. Once they were clear of anything Stiles might break with his clumsy feet, Derek released him, eyebrows questioning his presence there.

“Dude,” Stiles said, ignoring Derek's exasperated sigh. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Stiles rubbed his chest, feeling his racing heart start to slow down. Derek crossed his arms, expression never changing.

“So, uh, what are you doing here?” Stiles asked. Derek's eyebrows suggested that's what _they'd_ like to know. Stiles ignored them. “You're not living here again, are you?”

Derek sighed and rolled his eyes. “No, Stiles. I'm not living here again.”

“Right. Yeah, okay.” Stiles nodded. Then realized there was no reason to, so he stopped. “Uh, so you're cleaning up?” It wasn't actually a question, at least not one that needed to be asked as the answer was kinda obvious, but Stiles hadn't actually expected Derek to be here and had no way to explain his own presence.

“Stiles. Why are you here.” Derek said.

Stiles looked around, gaze darting anywhere other than the alpha before him. “Oh, um. Uh, that is. I want to help.”

Stiles wasn't sure who was more surprised by his announcement, him or Derek. “Uh, not with the house. Obviously.” Stiles really wished Derek would stop staring at him like that. Couldn't the man, werewolf, whatever, crack an expression so he could tell how deep the hole he was digging was.

“Not that I wouldn't be willing to help with the house. I just wouldn't be very good at it. I mean, you've seen how klutzy I am, and I know nothing about home improvement. Except that you should never trust me with power tools cause that'll end in tears and hospital trips.”

“Stiles.” Stiles wondered if he was just imagining that Derek sounded fond.

“Erica and Boyd!” He shouted. “Uh, I mean, I thought I could help, with Erica and Boyd. I mean, I know I can't track like you guys or anything, but there's got to be other ways I can help, right?”

Derek tilted his head and regarded him for a long moment. Stiles considered asking him how he could do that without looking like a puppy the way Scott and Isaac did. Maybe Derek could teach them how not to be ridiculously adorable. Stiles dismissed that thought immediately; Isaac had somehow managed to be adorable even when he was a power tripping douche. It was obviously a lost cause.

“I'm not sure what you could do to help.” Derek shook his head and continued before Stiles could protest. “But there is something else you could help with.”

“Yeah, okay. That's great. Whatever you need, I am your man.” Stiles replayed that in his head and cringed. “Uh, that sounded better in my head.”

Derek ignored the commentary and stalked out of the room. Stiles scrambled to follow. Derek didn't stop until they were both on the porch. He pulled the door shut and glared at it. Stiles was confused, but beginning to suspect Derek hadn't painted the symbol there.

“Do you know what this is?”

“A triskelion, like your tattoo. But not as nice!” Stiles kept talking, hoping enough words would make Derek stop glaring. “While it appears in a lot of places it's mostly known from Celtic art. It has a lot of meanings too, but is generally associated with things that come in threes, duh, like the Christian Trinity and the Maiden, Mother and Crone.”

“Stiles.” Stiles mouth snapped shut. Right, talking was not the way to go with Derek. “This symbol was put here by a rival pack. It's a challenge.”

“A challenge.” Stiles blinked. “For what?”

“I don't know.” Derek admitted, though he wasn't happy about it. “Any other pack and I would say it was for territory, but.”

“But what? What makes this pack different?”

“It's the symbol of the Alpha Pack.”

“Alpha Pack?” Stiles’ mind whirled with the implications. “As in a pack made up entirely by alphas?”

Derek nodded. “How does that even work?”

“I don't know. That's what I need you to find out.” Derek went back to glaring at the marked door. Probably so he could pretend he wasn't asking Stiles for help. “I need to know everything you can find about them. Who they are. How they work. What they could want here. Everything.”

“Yeah, okay, I can do that.” Stiles' mind was buzzing as he walked down the stairs and over to his car. He turned back just before getting in. “Do you know their names, or anything, someplace I can start looking.”

Derek jerked his head once, then turned and went back inside. Stiles started Betty and carefully navigated her out of the yard. He was so consumed by his thoughts that he was home before he realized.

* * *

Three days later found Stiles slouching in his father's recliner, lamenting the sudden absence of werewolves and their emergencies.

Stiles was bored. Extremely bored. So bored, he’d already finished all of his summer work. The last time he was that bored he went looking for a dead body and got his best friend turned into a werewolf.

He'd texted Scott, but wasn't surprised not to get a reply. He was really trying not to be jealous of Isaac. He was starting to like Isaac now that he'd dropped the douchetastic persona; he deserved something good in his life and Scott was awesome, he just wished Scott was capable of focusing on more than one person at a time.

He might actually have a better time getting ahold of Isaac. Too bad he didn't have Isaac's number. Did Isaac even have a phone? Surely he did; _Derek_ had a phone. He would totally pay for Isaac's phone, right? Right. He just needed to remember to get his number the next time he saw him. Assuming he hadn't died of boredom before then.

Hey! Derek had a phone. He could text Derek. Stiles grimaced, trying to shift around to a more comfortable position. How did his dad keep falling asleep in the recliner? It was lumpy as hell. He brought Derek's number up, before thinking better of it. He might've been bored but he hadn't reached suicidally bored levels yet.

Plus Derek would want to know what he'd found, and so far that was a whole lot of nothing. He considered trying again, but even he needed a break from research occasionally.

With nothing better to do he decided to see what horrifyingly healthy food he could inflict on his father. He totally knew about the burger and fries he'd been sneaking while out on patrol. Getting up, he nearly faceplanted, the glossy pages of a magazine sliding under his foot.

“Whoa,” he grumbled, clutching at the back of the recliner to keep his balance. “Where the fuck did you come from?

“That's two times in two days that I nearly took a header. I think the house has it in for me.”

Oh, and there was an idea. Investigating the loose paneling in the closet that nearly tripped him up yesterday could kill, like, a whole five minutes. He trotted into the kitchen, digging through the junk drawer until he came up with a working flashlight.

He wiggled his way back into the closet, wedging his shoulders into the small space. He dropped the flashlight on top of an old pair sneakers that hadn't fit him in years, and oh hey, there were his water shoes! He grabbed them and tossed them over his shoulder so he could put them with the rest of his lake stuff later.

A careful push against the paneling shifted it, just like before. Bracing himself so he didn't slip again, Stiles pushed harder. After a moment, a small gap appeared, just big enough for him to jam his fingers into. A moment of wiggling and the panel pulled free.

Setting it aside, he picked up the flashlight to see if there was anything interesting inside. He was a surprised when there actually was; he was expecting cobwebs and dust bunnies, and there _were_ plenty of those. He wasn't expecting a small wooden chest, shoved as far back as it could go. Pushing as far forward as he could, he was barely able to reach it, grasping the handle on one side to drag it towards him.

Shuffling out of the closet with the chest was awkward, and he ended up on his face at one point. Once free, he set the chest down to rub his forehead. With his luck he'd have a fantastic bruise right in the center of his forehead. Whatever, he'd found an old chest in a secret compartment. Totally worth it.

The chest was small, and surprisingly dust free, made of some dark, reddish colored wood. The brass hardware was all bright and shiny as new. Stiles wrinkled his nose, rubbing a finger over the large lock set in the front. Glanced back in the still uncovered hole. Cobwebs and dust, check.

“OK, that's just weird.” He mumbled. Weird enough to warrant texting Derek? He tried to imagine the look on Derek's face if he sent him a text that he needed help because he found a dust free chest in the closet. It was the homicidal one.

“Yeah, no. Still not that bored.” Stiles stood up, cradling the chest to his chest. Ha, chest to chest. He stumbled stepping away from the closet, barely catching himself against the wall. “Shit, the house really does have it in for me.”

He grabbed the stupid water shoes, rushing up the stairs. In his room he tossed the shoes at the bag containing the rest of his summer fun lake shit. He set the chest on his bed, plonking down on his computer chair. He stared at it for a minute, but aside from being strangely clean, it looked like any other chest he'd ever seen.

It wasn't very big, maybe the size of a bread box. Well, the size he imagined a bread box to be anyway since he'd never actually seen one before. Why would you even put your bread in a box? Did that keep it from molding? Make it fresher? Stiles turned to boot up his computer wondering if Wikipedia would have an article on bread boxes. A glint hit his eye, drew his attention back to the – possibly the size of a bread box – chest.

“Right. Chest now, bread boxes later.” He dug around in his top drawer until he found the lock picks Deputy Carmichael had given him, years ago, right after his mom's death. Stiles' dad hadn't been pleased, but hadn't objected. The picks had kept him quiet and distracted for hours at a time when he really needed it.

Stiles took a deep breath, shoving away his last sight of Deputy Carmichael – dead, bloody, and torn up – and rolled over to the bed so he could begin working on the chest's lock.

Two minutes and one satisfying click later the chest was open. Stiles tossed the picks aside, eagerly opening the lid. The inside was as weirdly dust free as the outside. Right at the top was a large, leather bound book. It looked brand new, no writing or anything etched into the deep red leather. The leather was soft, the book curling in his hands as he lifted it out. The edges of the pages were slightly uneven and looked a little thicker than normal.

Opening it he was unsurprised to see handwriting rather than text. A journal of some sort maybe. Setting it aside to be looked at later he turned back to the chest.

“Huh,” Stiles said, carefully brushing just the tips of his fingers against the shiny brown fur the book had been hiding. The hairs were short, soft, and oddly silky, almost slick. Stiles was surprised how warm it felt under his fingers, he pulled it out to get a better look. It was thick and, Stiles glanced into the chest, took up the rest of the small space. He stood, shaking it out, to get better idea of it's size.

It was huge. Nearly as long as he was tall, and wide enough he could probably wrap himself completely up in it. Out in the light, the color was a little lighter around the edges, getting dark towards the center. Thankfully there was no head attached, and the offshoots, that he assumed were once limbs, were short and ended abruptly. He wondered what kind of animal it had come from. Why was it in the chest? Why would anybody bother to hide it?

Stiles brought the fur closer, looking for any clues that might help identify it. As far as he could tell it was a uniform brown, no distinguishing marks. He buried his nose in the fur hesitantly, but any smell it carried was faint. He couldn't really pick up anything; maybe a hint of salt. Stiles rubbed his cheek against it, delighted by the soft ticklish sensation. He bet it would be warm, wrapped in the fur like a blanket.

He lifted his head, catching his reflection in the mirror inside his closet. He was halfway wrapped in the fur, one hand clutching it close to his chest even as the other was trying to pull it over the opposite shoulder. Stiles froze. He didn't remember deciding to wrap himself up let alone doing it. Even as he watched his left hand continued pulling the fur around him, though he wasn't conscious of doing it.

Stiles' breath stuttered in his chest. He tried to open his hands, to let the fur go, but couldn't seem to force himself to do so. One part of his brain was jabbering at him about curses, things he'd read about and how horribly they always ended. Another part of his brain was whispering about how warm it was, how right, how _familiar_.

Stiles watched, numb except for the painful tightening of his chest, as his hands continued to ignore his brain and wrap him in the strange fur. He was so focused that the shout from outside scared him into a full body flail. He landed on his ass, the fur under him not nearly thick enough to act as cushioning. It was only as he pressed his hand against where his heart was beating wildly that he realized he had let the fur go. Stiles crab walked away as fast as he could, not stopping until he was pressed against his bed.

He curled into himself, never taking his eyes of the fur as he tried desperately to pull air into his lungs. He tried to stand, willing himself to get as far away from the skin as possible, but was overcome with a wave of dizziness. He placed his free hand – only then realizing the other was still grasping his chest – on his bed for balance. He stayed in place for seconds that stretched to eternity, until he caught his balance. He pushed away from the bed, stumbling over to his desk, giving the skin a wide berth, and grabbed his cell.

It was only when he tried to use it that he realized how badly he was shaking. He bit down on his lip, sliding to the floor. He tried to control his breathing, counting it out like the doctors taught him. In, two, three, four, five. Hold, hold. Out, two, three, four, five. Again.

He didn't know how long he sat there struggling to breath, but it seemed like hours. The shaking finally eased enough that he could use his hands again and he immediately called Scott. He wanted to call his dad, wanted to hear his voice, have him come home and hold him, so desperately he couldn't distinguish the ache from the effects of the panic attack. But. But he knew in that frame of mind he'd never be able to lie to him. And as much as he hated lying to his dad, he was too afraid of what would happen to tell him the truth.

So he called Scott. Scott would be more help with a cursed skin, or whatever the hell it was, anyway.

Or he would be if he answered his damn phone! Stiles swore at Scott's voicemail, barked out a curt, “Call me!” and punched the end button so hard he was surprised he didn't crack the screen. As much as Stiles loved Scott like a brother, his continuing inability to answer his damn phone was really starting to piss him off.

At least pissed was better than afraid. He hated it, that baseless, nameless fear almost more than anything else. Well, at least he had a real reason to be afraid this time. Stiles tipped his head enough that he could see the skin from the corner of his eye. It looked harmless, certainly nothing to freak out over. But Erica had looked harmless and Stiles knew better now. He wouldn't underestimate the fur, just like he wouldn't forget the damage done to Betty.

When he could finally stand up, legs wobbly, he edged out of his room, careful not to get too close to the fur still spread haphazardly across the floor. He slammed the door shut behind him, leaning against it for support. One more deep breath and he pushed off, heading down to the kitchen. A few moments of digging in the drawers uncovered a long set of tongs they used for grilling.

Stiles took them upstairs, but couldn't seem to make himself go back in his room. “OK. OK, that was freaky and weird and all kinds of crazy, but it's over now. I'm OK, I'm fine. I won't get caught again. I'll just go in and put the fur back in the chest. Easy peasy. I don't even have to touch it. It'll be fine.”

Stiles looked down at the tongs in his hand, then squared his shoulders and opened the door before he could he lose his nerve. The fur was just where he left it, which shocked him immobile. Shaking his head, he cautiously crossed the room, stopping well out of grabbing range. Slowly, slowly, he crept forward, the tongs held out before him like a sword.

Bending slightly, he poked the edge of the fur with the tongs, jumping back immediately. Long moments later, he squinted one eye open, but everything looked the same. He slowly unclenched everything, easing forward again. He poked the fur a couple more times, just to be sure it wasn't going to do anything, and then grasped the edge with the tongs.

Lifting the fur was awkward, and it took three tries to get a good hold. The fur was heavy and slick, holding it at arms length with the tongs made it harder to manage; Stiles' arms were shaking by the time he'd maneuvered it back into the chest. He carefully tonged the trailing edges, stuffing the fur back inside haphazardly. Once it was all back in – and wow it kinda filled the entire chest, how had the journal fit in there with it before? – he used the tongs to flip the lid shut. He reached out slowly, pressing the lid down until the lock clicked.

Stiles' bones seemed to turn to water, and it was all he could do to turn his imminent collapse into a controlled slide to the floor. Leaning back against his bed, he focused solely on his breathe. In, two, three, four, five. Hold, hold. Out, two, three, four, five. And again. He wasn't sure how long it took before his heart finally slowed and the tightness left his chest.

He snatched up his phone again and was halfway through texting Scott before he stopped. Scott hadn't answered earlier, rarely ever answered actually. It was like he had some weird phone phobia. Except when he was talking to Allison. Stiles shook his head, that was a thought better left unexamined.

And this wasn't exactly an emergency anyway, the skin was safely tucked away where it couldn't do any harm, right? And it's not like being a werewolf would mean Scott would actually know what the hell just happened. _Stiles_ knew more about being a werewolf than Scott did, so it's not like his supernatural club card came with automatic knowledge of the supernatural.

Isaac probably wouldn't know either, even if Stiles could get ahold of him. Derek might know, but given how long it took him to figure out what the kanima was, and how little he knew of it, it didn't seem likely. He might be able to help figure it out, though, have sources Stiles didn't. But the only source of info Derek seemed to have that might yield answers before Stiles could find them himself was Peter. And Stiles would set _himself_ on fire before he asked Peter for help with anything.

Which meant he had a long day of googling ahead of him. Pushing himself to his feet, he glanced at the chest, just to make sure it hadn't mysteriously opened itself. It was still closed, and there, next to it on the bed was the leather book. Stiles startled, surprised he had forgotten completely about it. It had been in the chest with the skin, odds are it would have some info about it. He couldn't imagine why it would have been in there otherwise.

“OK, book.” Stiles glared at it in his best Derek impression. “I am going to read you, and you aren't going to do anything weird. No freaky compulsions, no trying to get me to put the skin on right? You are just going to be informative and tell me what I need to know. Understand?”

The book continued to lay there, looking innocuous. Stiles squinted at it suspiciously for another minute before finally picking it up. The leather was as soft and smooth as before. He opened it carefully, not sure if anything would happen. Nothing did, so he sat back in his chair, turning to set the book on his desk.

The first page was blank, just thick creamy paper. It wasn't yellowed and didn't smell like an old book. It couldn't have been in there too long, except. His parents had moved into the house right after they were married. Whoever put it there had to have done so at least twenty years ago. Then again, the chest had looked oddly new and dust free, maybe whatever was protecting it was doing the same for the book.

Turning to the next page, Stiles froze before he could take in any words. That was his mother's handwriting. He would recognize it anywhere. He glanced over the page, not taking in any words, only the way they looked before slamming the book shut. That was _not_ his mother's handwriting. It couldn't be. How would a book she had written in end up in a chest, in a secret compartment with a freaky – probably cursed – skin. It made absolutely no sense.

Stiles sat staring at the book before his curiosity won out over his confusion. Carefully, reverently, he reopened it to the first page of writing again. He brushed his fingers over the words, traced the careful whorls of the cursive letters. It was his mother's writing, there was no doubt about it, even if he couldn't figure out _why_. Why would his mom have hidden some kind of journal in a chest with a cursed skin or whatever? Why was it hidden under the stairs? Did she know about the supernatural? Did she know what the skin was and that's why she hid it? Did she know a lot about the supernatural? Did she know about the Hales?

There were so many questions, and really only one way to find out. Taking a deep breath he let it out slowly and began to read.

* * *

_I'm not really sure how to start this, I've never done this before. But I've seen people doing this, on that show Melissa likes, and I do need someone I can talk to without having to lie to even if it's just a book. Oh, Melissa is my roommate. Do I need to say that? I suppose not since I'm really only talking to myself._

* * *

Stiles stopped, staring at the journal. He knew his mother had lived with Ms. McCall before either of them had gotten married. They were best friends, that was why he and Scott had known each other since they were born. It just. It was just a fact of life, one no one really spoke about because it had always just been that way.

Seeing that little conformation somehow made it more real, and he wasn't really sure he was ready for that. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting when he opened the journal, maybe just for it to jump right in on the cursed skin. He was expecting a book really, something written to impart knowledge on the skin, but this. It was his mother's personal journal, her thoughts, her feelings.

Even as he was unsure he wanted to know, he desperately craved some kind of connection to his mother. He took a deep breath and began reading again.

* * *

_I'm not really sure how to start this, I've never done this before. But I've seen people doing this, on that show Melissa likes, and I do need someone I can talk to without having to lie to even if it's just a book. Oh, Melissa is my roommate. Do I need to say that? I suppose not since I'm really only talking to myself._

_Melissa was amused when she saw what I'd bought. I suppose it does seem a little strange. I finally get some extra money and I spend it on a journal instead of clothes or shoes or the trashy romance novels that Melissa denies reading. But it's an investment really, a safeguard. Some place I can be completely honest, the only person I don't have to lie to._

_I'm still not sure what I want to say. I didn't really think about how difficult it would be, to write out my thoughts and feelings. But even just this little bit of scribbling is a relief._

_I suppose I should start with how I got here. That seems a good beginning. It was a good beginning for me anyway, though I didn't realize it at the time. I hadn't meant to stop in Beacon Hills, let alone stay here. But I'm glad this is where I finally ran out of money._

_The owner of the diner where I spent the last of my money on a small breakfast was kind enough to give me a job, even though I had no experience and no recommendations or even any of the proper paperwork. Or any kind of resume at all. I suppose I would have had to know what a resume was to have one._

_She also fed me, insisting that all her workers were entitled to one free meal any day they worked, and any other food I ate could be taken out of my first paycheck. I'm not sure, but I don't think she actually took anything out. She's a kind woman, to help a stranger. I think she thinks I'm a foreigner who was stranded here somehow, and I suppose in a way that's true._

_The customers are quite nice as well. They are not rude and demanding like the people I've seen on the TV. They have all been very patient as I learned how to do my job and always left good tips. Even when I first started and was constantly getting things wrong. It feels good, knowing that there are people who are so kind, and that I can finally give them the service they deserve. I know many of my co-workers see this job as only a temporary one, want to work something better, but I love it. It's the first job I've ever had and all the kind people I've meet make it worthwhile._

_It's through my job that I met Melissa. She was in the diner the day I started, and I suppose one of the other waitresses told her my situation. I have to admit I wasn't happy with that at first. I didn't like the way everyone knew everyone and didn't think anything of telling everyone about what happened. But after months of living here, and being accepted with open arms, it seems silly now, that I was upset. They truly hadn't meant any harm, and it had in fact helped me more often than not._

_Anyway, once she heard about my difficulties, she said I was welcome to stay with her. She had an extra room in her apartment and had been looking for a new roommate. She never did say what happened to the last one, but she seemed uncomfortable about it, so I didn't feel I could pry. I think, I think I could now. We're friends now, and so close. We tell each other everything. Well, almost everything. I still don't talk about anything that happened before I came here, and no one asks. I know I could ask her and she would tell me, but I don't want to ask when I wouldn't be willing to answer any of the questions she must have._

_I still feel bad, that I couldn't pay my share of the rent the first month. But Melissa insisted it was fine, that she had been covering it for several months and an extra couple wouldn't hurt. It was hard to get her to accept any money the second month, and I think she only did because she knew it was important to me. I still plan to pay her back. I don't have a lot of extra money, but I don't need much, so I can save it up, and eventually I'll be able to pay her back._

_I don't think I'll ever be able to repay the town for all their kindness though. It's been so long since I've had a home and friends. I still miss my family dearly, but I think, maybe I could make a new one here. Melissa will never take the place of my lost sisters, but I already feel a closeness to her I haven't felt since my home was lost to me. I think maybe I could be happy here, as happy as it's possible to be when I can't go home._

* * *

Stiles had to stop again. He shut the journal and stared at it blankly. The words were so surprising and cut much too close. He never would've guessed his mother was keeping secrets, telling lies. And he _definitely_ didn't know anything about any sisters, or, or _any_ of that. His mom had only ever mentioned her dad, and only when she was explaining where his name came from. He always got the impression the man was dead, and had been for a while. Before he was born certainly.

Stiles glanced at the chest. It seemed less outrageous now that she might know about the supernatural. But who was she lying to protect? Herself, or someone else? Why was she traveling around? She said she stayed here cause she was broke. Why couldn't she go home?

Reading the journal might answer that, but he wasn't sure he was ready for those answers yet. Wasn't sure he would ever be ready.

As tempting as the journal was, as much as he wanted to know his mother in a way he never had before, he was also afraid. He didn't know if he could handle everything he found out about her, if he could risk damaging the reverent image she was in his memories.

After waffling back and forth for nearly fifteen minutes, Stiles finally tucked the journal onto the shelf in his headboard before shoving the chest in the back of his closet, under all the spare junk he hadn't had any other room for.

He set down at his computer, determined not to think about his mother's journal, and began looking for info on cursed skins.

* * *

Derek showed up the next day, with no warning, climbing through Stiles' window like the creeper he was.

Stiles quickly shoved his mother's journal under his pillow. He hadn't gotten up the courage to read anymore yet, but he still found himself drawn to it, completely unable to ignore it.

“We have a door you know,” Stiles flailed his way over to his computer chair, trying to draw attention away from the bed. There was no way Derek had missed that he was hiding something. “Two even. And since my dad's not home, which I _know_ you know, you could do something novel. Like use one.”

Derek grunted, seating himself on Stiles' bed, entirely too close to the hidden journal. Stiles tried not to panic and instead did what he did best, babble.

“So what brings you to my humble abode this fine morning?” he asked. Before Derek could respond a dozen scenarios, each worse than the last, ran through his mind. “It's not Scott, is it? Has something happened to Scott? Is it Erica and Boyd? Did you find them? Are they dead? Oh god, they're totally dead. What're we goin' to do?”

“Stiles!” Derek barked. Stiles would laugh at that and make one of the many, many dog jokes he had saved up, but he was too busy trying not to freak out completely. “They're not dead.”

“You found them?” He asked, shoulders slumping in relief.

“No.” Derek shifted uncomfortably.

“That's it? Just no. No qualifiers, no explanation for how you know that if you haven't found them?”

“I'm their alpha, Stiles.” Derek growled, and wow he really needed to stop that if he ever wanted Stiles to drop the dog jokes. “I'd know if they were dead, I'd feel it.”

“Uh huh. Is this like, I'd know it, like a parent swears they'd know if their kid was hurt, or is this an actual werewolf ability?”

Derek's frown was magnificent, his eyebrows managing to convey all the annoyance and exasperation he felt without the support of the rest of his face. “It's an alpha thing. I can feel my pack, if they were dead, I wouldn't still feel them.”

“Okay, not gonna lie, that is awesome, and also freaky.” Stiles gleefully rolled his chair closer to the bed. “Can you like, feel what they're feeling? Do you feel their pain? Hey, why can't you find them if you can feel them?”

“It's not GPS Stiles.” Wow, just when he thought the frown couldn't get any deeper. “Don't you think if I could find them with this I already would have?”

“Oh, yeah.” Stiles scrubbed the back of his neck, looking at where Derek's hands were clasped together in his lap. “Sorry. I just was surprised, I didn't mean. Yeah.”

Derek sighed, long and low. “I can feel them, their presence in my pack, but that's it. I can't feel where they are, or if they're in pain, or their emotions. It's just.” Derek stopped, scrubbed one hand over his mouth. Stiles tried to ignore the sound of skin scraping over stubble. He needed to focus, Derek was actually talking to him about werewolf stuff. “It's just an awareness, that they're here, and they're mine.”

“Huh,” Stiles sat back, forcing himself to think only about that. “So does that mean they're still in Beacon Hills?”

“Yes. If they'd left, their presence would,” Derek paused, struggling to find the right word. “Dim? The farther they got, the weaker the sense of them would be, but it would never really go away unless they died or joined another pack.”

“Hmm,” Stiles chewed on a hangnail to avoid asking the elventy million questions that brought up. Derek was finally telling him something, finally sharing the kind of information he couldn't get off the internet, and he didn't want to risk making him stop.

Unfortunately Derek stopped anyway. He sat there in silence, not seeming to see anything in the room. Stiles wondered what he was thinking about, but was afraid to ask. Whatever it was looked unpleasant. He turned to his desk, and fiddled with some books, but couldn't really focus on them. Somehow he managed to knock almost everything on top of the desk off, only a crazy lunge stopping his laptop from joining the rest on the floor.

Derek snorted behind him, so Stiles swung around to give him his best stink eye. He couldn't be too upset though, as it was actually funny, if it wasn't your stuff, and it was so rare for Derek to look anything less than über gloomy.

“So,” Stiles figured that since he'd already broken the mood, he might as well just go for it. “Any news on the Alpha Pack? Or,” he forced himself not stutter. “Gerard?”

Derek gave him a long look that Stiles tried to ignore. His heartbeat must have betrayed him even if his voice didn't. “No.”

Stiles waited, but there was nothing else. “Dude, you seriously need to work on your communication skills.”

“Don't call me dude.” Derek shrugged. “I can't find them. Any of them. What other details matter.”

“Um, I don't know. That's kinda the problem. Without other details, I have no way of knowing what matters and what doesn't.”

Derek sighed, but relented. “I haven't found any traces of any of them. If it weren't for their mark on my door, I wouldn't even know the alphas were here, and Gerard's trail just stops, in the middle of a lot, and there weren't any scents from a car or anyone that might have helped him.”

“That's. Okay that's weird. I mean, I don't know much about tracking, especially using your nose, but that seems weird.”

“It is. Unless he literally vanished into thin air, there should've been something.” Derek scrubbed his face again. “With the alphas, it's not surprising I can't trace them. I don't know their scents, they used something to mask it at the house. As long as they make an effort not to cross paths with me, I'll never be able to find them. But Gerard?” Derek shrugged.

Stiles added tracking and how to evade it to his mental to do list. There probably wouldn't be any info on werewolf tracking abilities, but real wolves and scent hounds should at least give him something to start with.

“I think,” Derek's words snapped Stiles out of his thoughts. “I think the alphas have Erica and Boyd.”

Stiles sucked in a deep breath. He wasn't shocked – not really – the thought had occurred to him before. More than once even. He just wasn't expecting Derek to think that, or admit to it anyway.

“Yeah, that. That makes sense.” Derek stared at his hands, not reacting to Stiles words. “I mean, you said they're still here, but we can't find them. So, yeah.”

They sat in silence for a while. Stiles fidgeted. He wasn't good with silence but he honestly couldn't think of anything to say. Well, anything that wouldn't potentially piss off the alpha werewolf sitting less than three feet away from him. And his dad said he didn't have any self-preservation instincts.

It was several minutes before Derek seemed to focus back on the room. “So, what have you found out about the Alpha Pack?”

Stiles sighed. “Nada, zip, zilch. A big fat nothing.” Stiles scrubbed his hands over his head. He really needed to buzz it again. “There is nothing on them at all, and everything I've found says a pack of alphas shouldn't even be possible.”

Derek grunted, but nodded, he didn't really seem surprised. “No point in wasting more time on that then. I need you to focus on anything you can find on alphas at all. Strengths, weaknesses. Anything.”

“I doubt I'll find anything new to you.” But Stiles nodded, turning to the laptop.

Derek's snort sounded remarkably bitter. “Considering I don't really know anything, that shouldn't be too hard actually.”

“Wha?” Stiles swung back around. Derek's face was pinched with some negative emotion, self-loathing maybe.

“I was never supposed to be an alpha, Stiles. I have no idea what I'm doing.” Stiles tried to wrap his mind around that. It wasn't surprising really, anyone who paid any amount of attention could tell Derek didn't have a clue. But to admit it, and to _Stiles_. That was. Huge.

“So you didn't. Uh. That's not something you're taught? Just in case?”

“Just in case what, Stiles? In case your entire family dies and you become alpha because you're the only one left.” Derek's voice was flat, but not aggressive. Stiles wasn't sure how to take that. “No, Stiles, they didn't teach me 'just in case.' Our pack was stable and had been for a long time. There was no need, because the chance of it ever happening was so slim.”

“Yeah, okay.” Stiles mumbled.

Derek sighed. “Laura was always meant to be the alpha. She just had the right, personality, or predisposition. I didn't. So I wasn't trained for it. I was expected to be her second, to be her right hand.

“We were stable, and made sure not to draw the hunters' attention. What happened - it shouldn't have happened! We should've been safe!”

But they hadn't been. He didn't say it, but it was obvious from Derek's face that he blamed himself. Stiles knew all about survivor's guilt. And he knew nothing he said would help, so he stayed silent for once. Choked down all the words that wanted to escape, to wipe that look off his face. It wouldn't help and for once he listened to the tiny little voice that he suspected was what little common sense he had.

Instead he turned back to his computer, letting Derek be alone with his grief and anger. He wouldn't make him regret opening up to Stiles. Not about this. So he stared at the computer, determined to find something, anything, that would help.


	2. Chapter 2

The water was warm and his mother was laughing. Stiles dived under the waves swimming, quick, quick, around his mother's legs. He surfaced on the far side of her, barking happily. She laughed and lunged towards him, but he was so much faster.

He dived again, the warm water slid along his sides like a silken caress. The further down he went, the less light there was to see by. But ahead there were fish, a silvery flash, all moving together. He barreled through them, temporarily scattering them, watching delighted as they reformed. He chased a few, back in and around, before heading back up. He wasn't hungry, not really, so it would be cruel to actually catch one.

Mom was waiting when he broke the surface, happy and carefree. She splashed him, before pulling him against her chest. He nosed at her neck, licking the salt from her skin. She laughed, was always laughing in the water.

Then Stiles was swimming again, swimming hard. He was chasing something, but he wasn't sure what. He was further out than he'd ever been before, could practically feel the weight of the water beneath him. He knew if he dived down he would never reach the bottom there, and it made him nervous, but in a good way. He wanted to know what was out here, past where he'd been. What was down in the dark and cold depths, where he'd never gone? What would he find, if he didn't stop?

“Bożydar!” He jerked back, nearly pulled around by his mother's voice. But there was something ahead, something wonderful, he could tell and he didn't want to stop, wanted to know.

“BOŻYDAR!”

Stiles snapped awake, disoriented. It took a long moment of looking around blindly before he finally realized where he was. His room was exactly like it was when he went to bed, and his mother had been dead for years. But he could still hear her voice, ringing in his ears, panicked and desperate.

Sitting up, he scrubbed over his face, trying to remember more of his dream. But even as he strained to catch it, it slipped through his fingers. All he could remember was swimming, and his mother, afraid. His brow furrowed as he tried to piece it together. But it was gone, nothing left but impressions. He wondered if telling Isaac about nearly drowning made him dream about it.

But.

But it hadn't been a nightmare. He didn't remember much, but the dream hadn't been bad, hadn't been scary. Aside from his mother screaming, at the end, it had been great. Warm, easy, fun. He wondered what she was yelling about, if it hadn't been his near drowning. It hadn't felt like he was drowning, not in the dream, not like what had almost happened at the pool.

Stiles stifled a yawn as he stood up. He stretched, sighing as his back popped. He had spent far too much of the previous night hunched over his desk, trying to find anything that could help Derek.

After a quick stop in the bathroom for a piss and his meds, he shuffled downstairs. A search of the kitchen didn't yield much, he needed to go shopping soon. For now he ate some frozen waffles, slathering them in butter and syrup he didn't have to feel guilty for eating without his dad there to stare mournfully at him.

A cup of coffee later and the Adderall had finally kicked in, leaving him awake and ready for another day of worrying Google search history. He booted up his laptop, opening his browser to start where he'd left off.

Skipping back and forth between the alpha research and looking for anything on cursed skins kept him mostly on track. He did spend nearly forty minutes on Wikipedia reading about Pertussis before remembering it wasn't in any way connected to what he was looking for and unsure how he had even ended up there. He bookmarked it for later reading; the complete history of whooping cough would make a great essay to inflict on Finstock the next time his crazy went even further off the rails.

Taking a break several hours later, Stiles headed down to the kitchen for a snack and more coffee. His results hadn't been any better than the day before. Most of what he'd found were horror stories of bad alphas. A lot of it was obviously hunter propaganda, but at least some of it was from sources he was almost positive were reliable and werewolf friendly. It was depressing and didn't really give him much hope for finding anything useful.

Not that he'd had much hope to begin with. Finding a _How to Alpha for Dummies_ guide would've made their lives far too easy, and if there was anything the past few months had taught him, it was that life was never that easy.

Sadly his research into the skin was going even worse. There hadn't been much on cursed skins, just a bunch of racist religious bullshit. Some people were _seriously_ crazy. Magic skins, on the other hand, had yielded a bit more; once you got past all the iPod ads and weird carpeting stuff. And got creative with search terms.

Still none of the stories he'd found had included a compulsion to wear the skin, and most had been sad or disturbing or both. Like how some witches would skin a shape-shifter, usually a werewolf, in its animal form so they could wear the skin and gain the advantages of shape-shifting without any of the downsides. Aside from murdering and skinning a person anyway. Apparently some people didn't count that as a downside.

Maybe he'd find better results if he knew what kind of skin it was. He tried to remember everything he could about it. He didn't think it belonged to a wolf, the hair seemed too short, and an uniform brown all over. He tried to remember what the fur had felt like, smooth, and slick maybe? Inexplicable warm, soft, and salt? Had it smelled like the ocean or was that a holdover from his dream?

Stiles stroked the skin, trying to get a better handle on what he was feeling. The fur bristled as he ran his fingers against the grain. He opened his eyes watching his fingers rub over the smooth fur thoughtfully. He brought it closer to his face, inhaling deeply. Salt, musk and fish. The brush of fur against his cheek made his eyes snap open. He was holding the skin up to his face, nose buried in it.

Stiles yelped, and flung the skin away from him. He stared at where it landed on the floor a long moment before finally looked around, stunned to find himself perched on his bed, chest open beside him. He tried to understand what the hell had just happened, but it made no sense. He didn't remember taking the skin from the chest, or even digging the chest out of his closet. Hell, he'd somehow picked the lock without even knowing he was doing it.

He stared blankly at his hands for a long time, carefully regulating his breathing, willing his heartbeat to slow. When he finally felt in control again, he went down to the kitchen to retrieve the tongs. Once the skin was safely back in the chest, he gingerly picked it up. He headed for his closet before deciding that that was entirely too close.

Maybe if he took it back downstairs, put it back where he'd found it, he might have less of a chance of that happening again. Surely the act of walking down the stairs and wedging himself into the tiny closet would snap him out of, of, whatever the hell that was.

Chest returned to it's hiding place, and no new bruises to show for it, Stiles retreated to his room. He stared long and hard at his mother's journal before picking it up. There had to be a reason it was in with the skin, and as difficult as it might be to read his mother's words, this was no longer an idle curiosity. The skin was making him _do_ stuff, he didn't have the luxury of ignoring any source of information at this point. He needed to read the journal to find out what the fuck was going on, no matter how difficult it was.

* * *

_His name is John. The deputy that always sits in my section. It seems like a good ordinary name, for a good ordinary man. He's been in the diner for lunch almost everyday since I started. Mairny, whose almost always on shift when I am, says he's been coming in for years. He seems nice, but lonely. Mairny says he doesn't have any family, that there had never been many of them and the last of them had passed years ago. I wish I was brave enough to talk to him, outside of taking his order. He has such a kind smile, nothing like that man's, and I think we could understand each other. Maybe make each other a little less lonely._

_Latoya, who usually works nights so I don't know her well, thinks he likes me. She says he keeps glancing at me, when I'm busy with something else. And he stays longer than he used to. All the waitresses agree on that, say that before I started here, he would take his food to go most times, and even when he ate in, he was always quick about it, never lingering over coffee. They all think I should just ask him out, but I don't know._

_I'm not sure I'm really ready for that. He seems nice, but that man had too at first. But what if he's really not. He's a deputy, and well known and liked here. I don't want to have to leave another home, but I don't think I could stay if he turned out to be like that man. And how much harder would it be to get away. That man wasn't a deputy, didn't have the kind of resources John would._

_I just don't know what to do._

* * *

When his dad came home for dinner, Stiles was still thinking about what he'd read. He hadn't gotten very far, overwhelmed by what he was learning, and he had no idea what any of it meant yet. He thought about telling his dad, but. He'd insist on seeing the journal, and Stiles wasn't really ready for that. He didn't think his dad was either to be honest.

He was prepping dinner, chopping things for salad while the chicken marinated. His dad always manned the grill; he claimed he was too afraid to let Stiles play with fire. But given he let Stiles use the stove, which not only involved fire, but was _inside their flammable house_ , he called bullshit. He was pretty sure his dad was just secretly a pyro.

He wondered how his dad would react when he realized the cauliflower that was cooking was going to get mashed up to take the place of potatoes. Stiles was kinda hoping his face would get that funny outraged look he'd had the first time Stiles fed him a veggie burger.

Stiles didn't hear the door open, but he did hear the creaking of the stairs as his dad headed up to lock up his gun. It wouldn't take long for him to finish his end of shift routine, so Stiles pulled out a beer and set it by the chicken.

“Stiles,” dad said. “Thanks.”

“Yo, dad!” He turned, just in time to see his dad grimace at the platter of chicken. “Go. Grill. Be manly.”

Dad raised a brow as Stiles grinned madly. He had no idea what had happened at work but it must have been bad to put his dad off meat.

“So it's come to this? My only son, forcing me into labor, after I've worked a twelve hour shift.” Dad sighed dramatically but headed towards the back door.

“Well maybe if _somebody_ wasn't sneaking curly fries at work he would be able to relax at home without his arteries clogging!” Stiles called after him. Dad didn't even bother denying it, just waved him off over his shoulder as he went out the door.

Dinner was quickly served, and the face his dad made when he saw Stiles mashing the cauliflower – with garlic and olive oil, no matter what his dad said he wasn't actually trying to make him suffer – was as hilarious as he thought it would be.

The first few minutes passed in silence as they dug in. Whatever had put his dad off before apparently wasn't enough to keep him from eating. No matter what his dad said his food was delicious and he loved it.

“So, Stiles, what've you been doing with yourself this summer?” dad asked.

“Nothing, nothing, and nothing. Seriously, I was so bored I did all of my summer homework already. Though I did go to the lake with Scott and Isaac last week.”

Dad gave him a long assessing look. “So, you're friends with the Lahey boy now. How'd that happen?”

“Scott.” Stiles said, and it wasn't even a lie. “He and Isaac got close, bonded over lacrosse or whatever. Figured I should try to be friends with him too. Plus, given everything that’s happened, I think he can use all the friends he can get.”

Stiles tried to shrug like it was no big deal.

“Come here, kiddo,” dad got up and pulled him into a hug. If Stiles held on a little too tight, his dad didn't comment on it.

Stiles tried to focus on the warm glow in his chest, so glad he hadn't completely destroyed his relationship with his dad, but he couldn't. All he could think about was how he was still lying to him.

“I'm proud of you kid.” Dad whispered into his hair. Stiles buried his face in dad's shoulder. “I know it's not easy, dealing with all the things that have been changing recently. Isaac's been through some tough times; it's good to know he won't be alone anymore.”

If it was a few minutes before they finally let go, neither of them would mention it. They sat back down, staring at their plates pretending the last few minutes hadn't happened. Dad cleared his throat.

“Anyway, did you boys have fun?”

“Yeah. It was nice.” Stiles smiled, it actually had been really fun, much better than he would've guessed.

“I'm glad you had a good time. So, where is Scott today?”

“Today was the first day of summer school. Not to sure what he did after, though,” Stiles said. “I think he might've had to work.”

“Right, I forgot he was having some problems this year.” Dad shook his head. Judging from his expression he was probably thinking Scott was a dumbass for letting a girl and sports get in the way of school.

Stiles tried not to wince, knowing his dad's opinion of Scott was his fault. Hopefully now that Scott had a better handle on the werewolf thing, it wouldn't be an issue next year, and dad would again think of him as the lovable doofus that spent as much time at their house as at his. Even if none of that was really true anymore.

“Soooo, how was work?” Stiles didn't even try to be subtle about changing the subject. Dad shot him an unimpressed look, but didn't call him on it, so he counted it as a win.

“Long.” Dad sighed, rolling his shoulders. “I never thought I'd be so happy to spend an entire day doing paperwork, but after the last few months it was rather relaxing.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. Though he tried to hide it, Stiles caught the brief frown that flickered across his face. He added in the grimace, and the unusual – but not rare, the Stilinski men were huggers – hug and he came up with, _oh shit_.

Clearly something was up and dad was trying to keep him out of it. But odds were whatever had happened was related to the supernatural. It seemed like everything that happened in town was now.

“Relaxing. Yeah.” Stiles tried to use dad's bullshit look on him, but judging by the smirk he got in return he hadn't perfected it yet. “So it was paperwork that made you turn green at the sight of the chicken.”

Dad sighed, “Stiles.” For once Stiles managed to keep his mouth shut, just continued to look at him. Maybe persistence would work even with whatever look he was pulling right then.

“One of the deputies found some carcasses while out on patrol.” Dad huffed. Yay, persistence! “In that lot over on Hillcrest.”

“Hillcrest. That's nowhere near the Preserve.” It was near the abandoned warehouses though. “You think there's some animal living around there?”

“No, no. It definitely wasn't an animal. None of the carcasses were eaten. They were,” dad let out an explosive breath. “Cut all up.”

“Ugh, gross. Who would do that?” Stiles frowned, that didn't really sound like something a werewolf would do, but they couldn't be unlucky enough to have a group of potentially homicidal werewolves _and_ some crazy person at the same time? God he hoped not.

“I don't know, but I'm worried. Animal mutilations are usually just the beginning. A person who does that, well. There's a definite history of animal cruelty with serial killers.”

“Great, just what our town needs, a serial killer.” Stiles bit his lip, he'd nearly said _another_.

Dad snorted but didn't reply. There wasn't much conversation after that, they were both too caught up in their thoughts. Stiles wondered if this was the kind of information that Derek would need. It wasn't necessarily about the alphas, but it could be.

He debated whether or not to contact him through the rest of dinner and clean up, without ever making a decision.

* * *

_I met Talia Hale today. I've heard about her, from the other workers. Almost everyone seems to like her, though Mairny thinks she's weird. Apparently her and her whole family live in a big house in the middle of the woods, almost in the Preserve. I'm not sure why that makes them weird, but even after all this time I don't really understand people well. The fact that her husband took her name when they married was apparently a big deal. I haven't asked why, because I'm afraid it's just one of those things people know, and I don't want anyone to start questioning why I don't._

_But back to Talia. I knew the instant she had entered the diner. I could feel it, like a shiver down my spine. I don't know what she is, but she's definitely not human. There's something very predatory about her. Not even the criminals I ran into when I was hiding from that man were so obviously dangerous. I can't believe no one else seems to notice it._

_She noticed me too. I don't know if it was just because I noticed her, or if it went deeper. She didn't seem hostile though, just watchful. I wish I knew what she was. This place finally feels like it could be home, I don't want to leave again. But if this her territory, I know I'll have to if she insists. Whatever she is, she's a predator, and I can't fight her._

_Why did this have to happen? And just when I've finally begun to trust John. It's been months since I asked him out and he truly is everything he seems. He's kind and generous and warm. The way he looks at me, like I'm something precious, how he touches me so gently, kisses me like there's nothing else he'd rather be doing, it's. It's like nothing I've ever felt before. This all so new and wonderful. I'm not afraid of him._

I'm not afraid of him.

* * *

_I'm so excited, I don't know what to do. John asked me to marry him! And I said yes! Part of me is terrified, convinced he'll be like that man once he has me in his power. But I know he won't be, even if part of me can't believe it. He is a good man, a kind man. I know he will never hurt me or our children. God, children. I've always wanted them, but I never thought I'd have them. Not after meeting that man. I couldn't take the risk that he would treat the children like he treated me._

_But I've seen John with kids. He's great, seems to love them. I'm not worried about that at all. He will be a wonderful father and our children will be blessed._

_Melissa has agreed to be my Maid of Honor. We both cried a little when I asked. Having Melissa as my friend these last few years is almost like having my sisters back. I would be lost in this life without her. I can only hope she finds the kind of happiness I've found with John some day. I'm going to miss her fiercely when I move in with John._

_Mairny agreed to be a bridesmaid, but only on the condition I don't pick ugly dresses. I'm not sure what is wrong with pink taffeta, or even what that is, but I'm sure she'd know better than I do about this. Maybe I should ask Talia._

_Talia. I'm going to ask Talia to be a bridesmaid too. I'm sure she'll say yes. She's been so helpful. She can always explain the things I don't understand, and she's the one who helped me get the paperwork I'll need to get married. Before she mentioned helping with that, I didn't even know there was anything I needed._

_It's hard to remember I was once afraid of her. She's so kind, and the way she's opened her home and family to me is a priceless gift._

_Being there, with the pack, all that family together. It's almost like being back home. Sometimes when I leave the ache for what I lost is so strong it feels like my heart has been ripped from my chest. But the comfort is too great, I go back again and again, because it's worth it, to feel that closeness again for a little while._

* * *

_I'm pregnant! It's finally happened! Melissa said she's never seen anyone so happy about morning sickness before. I'm still not sure why she calls it that when I keep getting sick at night. But it doesn't matter. I'm going to have a baby._ We're _going to have a baby!_

_I love him already. So does John. The way he looks whenever he thinks about our son. I knew I was right to trust him. He will be a wonderful father. Our son will be the most loved child ever._

_Melissa wants to know why I'm so sure he'll be a boy, but I don't know how to explain. I just do. I see his face in my dreams, so clearly, as if he was already here. He will be a beautiful little boy, and he will shine so brightly with magic I don't know how other people won't see it. I ache to hold him in my arms._

_But, I'm worried as well. I know he'll be like me, and I'm not sure how to keep anyone from finding out. There will be so many doctors checking so many things, how am I to hide this from them?_

_I have to tell Talia. She will know what to do._

* * *

_Bożydar is two months old today. I've been so busy with him that I haven't had a spare moment to think, let alone write. He's so beautiful. Everything about him is perfect. John says that's because he takes after me. I don't think so. All the best of him came from John._

_I really wish he hadn't taken after me quite so much. It worries me, that someday someone will find out, like that man did. I don't want that for him. He deserves so much better than some person thinking they can use and control him. But I have no idea how to protect him. The only thing I know how to do is to hide what we are._

_Talia has been a blessing. She's promised to protect us, to never let anyone hurt Bożydar like that. It's such a relief, having such a powerful pack for friends and allies. I think I might worry myself sick without that reassurance._

* * *

Stiles wished he could say he was surprised to find Derek lurking in his room when he got back from lunch with his dad, but he was trying to limit the number of lies he told himself. He was saving them up for something more important than Derek's creeper tendencies. Like his mom.

Derek didn't say anything right away, just let his eyebrows convey his impatience. He was clearly there for whatever info Stiles had dug up on alphas, but Stiles had never really been known for being accommodating.

He thought about telling him about his mom instead. He wanted to say, our mothers were friends. And, my mom knew about the pack. Or maybe, I think my mom was something magic. And, I don't know if she was human. I don't know if _I'm_ human.

“When your face eventually gets stuck like that, I'm going to laugh,” he says instead. “And then I'm going to take a picture and post it everywhere. See if it'll become the next grumpy cat.”

Derek's eyebrows devolved from impatient to 'I'm going to slam you into things,' so Stiles woke up his laptop and opened the relevant files.

“So, sadly there isn't an _Alphaing for Dummies_ anywhere. Most of the shit I found was nothing new or flat out wrong.”

“Most,” Derek finally deigned to talk.

“Yeah, nothing useful, just horror stories about bad alphas. Almost all of it's hunter propaganda, but some of it's from reliable sources. And we unfortunately know from experience that some of it _has_ to be true.”

“That's about what I expected,” Derek said, but his shoulders slumped in resignation. Stiles was surprised to realize he much preferred Derek's cocky 'I'm the Alpha' routine.

“There was one thing,” he hadn't planned on mentioning it, didn't want to take the chance Derek would do something stupid, but he couldn't stand the closed down, almost defeated, look on his face.

Derek didn't reply, just raised his eyebrows. Stiles huffed, he was going to have to write an eyebrow to English guidebook at some point.

“Yeah, there's a strain of wolfsbane, _Aconitum vulparia_ , which was the species originally called that, that contains lycoctonine instead of aconitine, which is what's in monkshood.”

Derek made an impatient get on with it grunt, face set in a classic 'I have no idea what you're talking about but I'm not going to admit it look.'

“While lycoctonine is just as poisonous as aconitine, in low doses, it acts like werewolf steroids.”

“So it would make me stronger.” Derek looked thoughtful. Aaannnd that was why Stiles hadn't wanted to tell him.

“Well, yeah.” Stiles swung around to look at the file he had on lycoctonine. “But just like regular steroids, there are a lot of side effects.”

“Like.” One day Stiles was going to teach Derek how to properly use interrogatives. Today was not that day though.

“Like, it's addictive. The way most drugs are. And since it's poisonous, it'd probably be easy to overdose.” Stiles glanced over his shoulder, but Derek didn't look nearly deterred enough. “It can increase aggression, not something a werewolf really needs.

“It can also cause anxiety, paranoia, sleeping disorders, sometimes even hallucinations.” Derek was frowning again, but still thoughtful, so to make sure he drove the point home. “ _And_ if a werewolf takes it long enough it can affect their ability to shift.”

“Shift. How.” Derek finally looked nonplussed.

Stiles took a moment to mentally congratulate himself. He decided to ignore the voice that pointed out there wouldn't be a problem if he hadn't mentioned it to Derek in the first place.

“From what I found, it sounds like they get stuck, usually in beta form, but sometimes in alpha form. I didn't find any stories where they were stuck in human form, but it could be possible.”

Derek hmmed. “That might explain it, then.”

“Explain what?” Stiles asked. Derek didn't answer immediately, finally starting to look as concerned as Stiles felt he should.

“There's been some,” Derek paused, brow furrowed. “I've found some remains. Of animals.”

“Let me guess, they were mutilated, not eaten.”

Derek's eyebrows shot up so fast, Stiles half expected them to fly right off his face. “How – your dad.”

“Yeah,” Stiles nodded. “A deputy found some mutilated carcasses in that lot over on Hillcrest yesterday. He didn't say much about it, but he's really worried.”

“If they were anything like the ones I found, he should be. I don't know about in town, there might be less scavengers, but when animals die or are killed out in the Preserve, something eats them. But these.

“These weren't eaten. They were torn apart. And not a single scavenger has gone near the carcasses.”

“Huh,” Stiles stared at Derek but there was no more info forthcoming. “And you think the Alphas did it?”

Derek shook his head. “Not at first. I thought maybe we had something else running around, something unnatural that would drive other predators off. It's just not something werewolves do, even when they go feral. If they do kill animals, they eat them, just like any predator. But if they're dosing, it might be making them act irrationally.”

“Great, that is just. Perfect.” Stiles scrubbed at his face. “As if a pack of alpha werewolves wasn't bad enough, now we have to deal with a super pumped drug crazy pack of alpha werewolves.”

Derek squeezed his shoulder. Stiles just managed not to jump. One of these days he was going to bell Derek, before he could give him a heart attack.

“We'll manage, we always do.” Stiles was also going to have to buy him a book on giving motivational speeches cause he seriously sucked at it. “Just keep looking into this drug. See if there's any way we can use it against them.” Stiles opened his mouth to protest. “I'm not going to use it. None of us are. But if the Alphas really are we might be able to find a weakness.”

“Yeah, OK.” Stiles sighed. Derek gave his shoulder one more squeeze before heading out. Stiles stared at the window long after he was gone. Derek may not be good with words, but at least he was trying now.

Stiles finally shook himself out of his contemplations. He really didn't want to thank about crazy drugged up alpha werewolves stalking the streets – or woods – of Beacon Hills. He grabbed his mother's journal, determined it finish it and finally figure out what the hell was going on with him.

* * *

_Oh, god. I don't. I can't. I've been crying for hours, ever since we got home. I need, need to stop, John will be home soon. God, Bożydar was. He. I need to stop, get it together. Bożydar won't stop crying until I do, I need. I can't do that to him. He doesn't understand what's wrong. He's just upset cause I'm upset. I need to get it together. I thought writing it down might help, but._

_I almost lost him. I don't. I can't. I don't think I'd survive if I lost him. He and John are my whole world, I'd die without them. Oh god, John. What am I going to tell him? He knows I take Bożydar to the beach whenever I can, he'll notice if I stop. But I can't go back. I can't risk it. What if there's another seal colony. Bożydar might not come back next time._

_The pull of the ocean is so strong. I can barely resist even after all these years even knowing that I can never go back, not without drowning. But Bożydar. My beautiful foczka is just a baby. I should have never taken him there. I should have known he was too young to resist, that he wouldn't know how dangerous it would be if he went. He might have survived if he went with the colony, but I don't know that normal seals would have accepted him, cared for him._

_I can never take him back. It's too dangerous. I'll have to hide his skin, make sure he can never try to leave again. And I'll have to figure out something to tell John. Something that will explain why we can never go back._

_I don't know. The safest bet would be to tell him Bożydar almost drowned. He would understand not wanting to go back after that. But if I tell him that, he might get suspicious if I don't avoid pools or the lake. I don't know if I can give up swimming altogether. I can't have the ocean, but I need to swim, I think I might go crazy if I stopped. I don't think Bożydar would do well without it either. It's too much a part of our nature. I don't know what to do._

_Oh, god, what do I do?_

* * *

Stiles dropped the journal, reeling back until he hit the bed, falling gracelessly on it. He put together seal, and magic skin and came up with one answer. Selkie. His mom was a selkie. _He_ was a selkie. Is? Was? Did he still count as one when he didn't remember ever being anything other than human?

But he wasn't, was he? He turned into a fucking seal. Oh, god. He'd turned into a seal and nearly swam away. The dream he'd had the other day, the one he'd always thought was about nearly drowning. He had had that dream a lot when he was younger, but this was the first time he'd had it in years.

Was it because of the skin? Did it jolt something in his memory, a part of him that recognized what it was? What it meant?

That was, that was crazy. Stiles was human, had always been human. Wouldn't he know if he wasn't? Shouldn't there be some sort of tell if he wasn't? Sure, the stories made it sound like he couldn't change without the skin, but the werewolves all had werewolfy senses. Why didn't he have something like that?

Because he was human, of course. But. But why would his mom say he wasn't if he was? What would be the point? And the skin was definitely magic. Every time he got near it, he wanted to put it on. Felt like he _needed_ to put it on. Was it because it was his? Was that really his – his seal skin? If he gave in and wrapped himself up tight would he change? Become something new? Become him?

He needed answers. He hadn't paid much attention the first time through, had assumed it wasn't relevant. God, they're right – whoever the fuck they are – about assumptions, cause he was really feeling like an ass right now.

He left the journal where it had landed, skirted around it like it might bite before sitting down at his computer. He needed to figure this out. He needed to know. Even if he didn't _want_ to know.

* * *

When Stiles finally surfaced from his research, he hopped out of his chair, unable to hold still for a moment longer. He paced around his room, mind whirling with everything he'd found. God, it was so fucking disturbing. All the references mom had made to “that man” were finally making sense. He must have found her skin and kept it. Kept her.

He'd thought maybe she was running from an abusive ex. And in a way she was. But unlike most battered women, she'd been _compelled_ to stay. Almost everything he'd found said someone who held a selkie's skin had power over them. And in every story, they always made the selkie marry them.

As that thought sank in, Stiles' stomach roiled with the implications. He bolted for the bathroom, barely making it before throwing up everything he'd eaten in the last week. Every time he thought he was done, he remembered that some fucking bastard had forced his mom to, to. He threw up until there was nothing left, 'til he was dry heaving.

An eternity later, he finally stopped, slumped next to the toilet, abs aching. It wasn't until he wiped at his mouth that he realized he was crying. Had been crying. Stiles wrapped his arms around his knees, pulling them to his chest. He buried his face in his knees, trying to fold himself down as small as possible.

* * *

Stiles was disoriented when he first woke up. He was laying on something hard and kinda cold. Everything ached, and his eyes felt puffy and gritty. He tried to move, but his body protested, vehemently.

It took a long moment of confusion before he was able to uncurl his stiff limbs. It was only when he kicked the wall that he realized he was curled up on his side in the bathroom, back to the tub and head entirely too close to the toilet.

“Wha?” he mumbled.

He slowly pushed himself up, standing and rubbing at his eyes, wondering why the hell he'd gone to sleep in the bathroom and why his stomach hurt so much.

It wasn't until he looked in the mirror and saw his red, puffy eyes that he remembered. His stomach gave an unpleasant lurch, but thankfully didn't revolt again. Stiles stared at his reflection, trying to see something, anything, that would mark him as inhuman.

There was nothing. Just Stiles, looking normal. Expect for the part where he looked completely wrecked. Because his mom - she - fuck! He couldn't think about it. He would lose his shit again if he did. So he would do what he did best. Denial.

He stripped down and stepped into the shower, not waiting for the water to warm. He yelped, but turned his face up into the spray, hoping the cold water would help hide the evidence of his freakout. There was no way he'd be able to explain any of this to his dad.

He stayed in longer than usual, only getting out once the water started to cool again. He dried off quickly, then reluctantly wiped off the mirror. Most of the evidence was gone, but his eyes were still a little red and puffy. Enough that his dad would notice.

He could probably pass it of as allergies, but he hated lying to his dad. He'd done too much of it already, it felt like even one more would break everything. Still, there was no way he could explain that dad hadn't really known his wife. He was still so broken over her loss, how would he deal if he found out she had lied to him about so much; had kept so many secrets from him?

Stiles wrapped a towel around his waist before heading back to his room. He dressed slowly, trying not to think about anything. It didn't work too well, his ability to deny what he knew sorely tested. He wandered downstairs, planning to eat before he took his meds.

His dad was at the table, drinking coffee and reading the paper. He was already in uniform, and there was an empty plate before him. He smiled when Stiles came in, then frowned. Clearly he'd noticed. Stiles stifled a sigh. He knew he wouldn't be that lucky.

“Morning, son. You okay?” Dad asked, trying, and failing, to sound casual.

“Yeah, dad. Just.” Stiles paused, considering how best to explain without lying. “Found something that made me think about mom.”

Dad winced, standing so he could pull Stiles into a hug. “You okay now? Or do you need me to – ”

“I'm fine. Really,” he added at dad's skeptical look. “I'm just gonna hang with Scott today. Play some mindless video games. Not think about anything.”

Dad held his gaze for a long moment before nodding and stepping back. “Okay. But if you need me, you call me. I've just got paperwork again today. I can take a little time off if you need me. Really.”

“Yeah, okay.” Stiles smiled, knowing how much dad hated paperwork and would use the flimsiest excuse to avoid it if he could.

Stiles pulled out a bowl, milk and cereal and dug into the breakfast of champions. Dad returned to his coffee and paper. It wasn't long before he left, kissing Stiles on the forehead on his way out.

Stiles finished eating, taking a cup of coffee upstairs with him. He grabbed everything he'd need for a day of video games before hesitating over the Adderall. He didn't really want to focus today, didn't want to think about anything more important than wondering why a group of llamas was called a flock when individuals were called a bull, cow or calf; he finally shoved it in his bag, deciding he could take it later if he needed to.

He headed out to Scott's, making the drive in record time. He didn't bother calling ahead, Scott wasn't a morning person, there was no way he'd be up already. Stiles figured ambushing him before he was awake enough to get away was the only way he'd get a decent amount of bro-time that summer.

Not that he was bitter or anything. Okay, maybe he was a little bitter. But he was genuinely happy, too. He was glad that Scott was making other friends, especially werewolfy friends, even if he was jealous of all the time Scott spent with Isaac. He'd just continue to try and be friends with Isaac too, cause he could use more friends too, and god knows Isaac certainly could.

Stiles parked on the road in front of Scott's house, hopping out and grabbing his bag. Ms. McCall's car wasn't there, so either she'd gone in early, or wasn't off yet. Stiles felt a little bad that he was glad about that, but he really needed his best bro's undivided attention right now.

He didn't bother ringing the bell, just let himself in. He headed straight for the kitchen, deciding he needed more coffee, and that bacon was the best way to lure Scott into the land of the living.

Checking the fridge, he saw there was more than enough food. Thank god Ms. McCall was in on the werewolf secret now. For a while there Stiles thought Scott was going to have to supplement his diet with poor defenseless bunnies.

It wasn't long before he had a heaping plate of food and Scott was wondering in, eyes closed and nose up. Damn, Stiles really needed to ask Derek to teach Scott how to be subtle about using his sense of smell. But not until he got plenty of blackmail pictures. Stiles put his phone down, chortling over how Scott's bedhead made him look extra ridiculous, when Scott finally opened his eyes.

“Stiles?” Scott's brow furrowed in that adorable confused puppy way it always had. Stiles pondered that for a moment. Between that and the eyes, he wondered if maybe Scott had just been destined to end up a werewolf.

“Yo, dude!” Stiles knew his grin probably bordered on maniacal, but he couldn't really help himself.

Scott stared at him blankly for a long moment. Stiles went back to cooking. “What are you doing here? And why are you cooking?”

“The answer to both questions is because I am an _awesome_ friend.” Stiles set down a plate heaping with scrambled eggs and another with several packages worth of bacon on it.

Scott slowly walked to the table, staring at the food suspiciously before finally sitting down and loading up the plate Stiles had set out for him. Stiles grabbed the toast and the last of the bacon before grabbing a plate for himself.

It wasn't until his first bite that he realized how hungry he still was. Between skipping dinner and his meds, he was starved, and one bowl of cereal just wasn't cutting it. He and Scott ate in silence, wolfing – ha! - down the food in a way that would make both their parents cringe. And possibly earn them Gibbs slaps for not using the manners they'd had drilled into them.

By the time they were finished, Scott looked like he might actually be awake. “Thanks, man. I haven't eaten real food all week.”

“Your mom on nights?”

“Yeah,” Scott sighed, pushing back from the table. “Your dad?”

“Nah,” Stiles started grabbing plates, handing them off to Scott to rinse and put in the dishwasher. “He's on desk duty. Paperwork. Lots of overtime too.”

“Sucks,” Scott said, well acquainted with his dad's rants on both subjects.

Stiles shrugged. “I think he's actually relieved. If he has time to do nothing but paperwork, it means no more bodies are showing up.” Stiles carefully didn't think about the animal mutilations or his father's worried frown.

Scott frowned again, managing to look slightly less adorable this time, and nodded. Stiles stifled a laugh, if they ever had kids, Allison was going to have to be the tough parent cause no way would Scott ever pull it off.

Stiles turned away, grabbing the pans on the stove so Scott wouldn't see him scowling. The whole Allison thing was something else he was trying not to think about. He'd been doing pretty well before now. But his brain now apparently linked Scott and Allison together inextricable. Shit. Maybe he should've skipped bro-time and gotten drunk in the woods.

Of course, knowing his luck he'd get eaten by an alpha werewolf, so he should probably cross that off his list of coping methods.

“So,” Stiles said once clean up was done. “What's on the agenda for today? I vote for zombie killing and pizza.”

“There are zombies now!?” Scott's wide eyes and rumpled hair made him look about five years old. “Shit! When did that happen? _How_ did that happen?”

Stiles couldn't help it. He knew he shouldn't, but he broke down laughing. He ended up bent double, hands on his knees, stomach reminding him that he hadn't recovered from last night yet. It wasn't until Scott pulled him into a hug that he realized his laughter had turned to tears.

He clung to Scott, soaking up all the comfort Scott was offering, until he could get control of himself. Scott let him go when he pulled back. Stiles hoped he'd let it go without asking too.

“Dude, what's wrong?” No such luck. And Stiles couldn't lie to him; even without counting werewolf powers, he couldn't lie to that earnest concerned face. It would feel too much like kicking a puppy.

“I. It's just.” Stiles sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. It wouldn't due to have freak Scott out worse by having panic attack. “It's my mom. I found a, a journal of hers, when I was going through the closet the other day.”

Scott pulled him into a brief hug. “Come on, man. It's been ages since we had any quality bro-time. The zombies can wait. We're going to spend the day playing Madden and eating junk food and making fun of Derek's eyebrows.”

Stiles laughed, following Scott up the stairs, wondering how long it would take Scott to realize the only zombies around were pixelated. He firmly put the question of why hadn't told Scott everything out of his mind.

* * *

Several hours later, they finally took a break from gaming to eat. Ms. McCall was home and asleep, so they moved the action downstairs. They were both feeling lazy, so they ordered a ridiculous amount of pizza.

Stiles folded his slice of pizza in half, the better to shove as much as possible into his mouth at one time. Scott snorted, but considering Stiles had seen him stuff half a bag of marshmallows in his mouth at once, he had no room to talk.

“Dude, you're gonna burn all your taste buds off doing that.” Scott said.

“Mmwtmvr,” Stiles mumbled. Scott gave him a disgusted look when crumbs sprayed out. Stiles just flipped him off.

“So,” Stiles asked, once he'd swallowed enough food to talk clearly. “Where's Isaac? He doing okay?”

“What? Yeah, I think so. I mean, how would I know?” Scott looked like a confused puppy again.

“Uh, cause you've practically been attached at the hip all summer.” Stiles rolled his eyes.

“What? No we haven't.”

“Yeah, you kinda have been.” Stiles shook his head. “Every time I try to call you or anything, you're always out with him.” Stiles was impressed how casual he managed to sound.

Apparently it wasn't casual enough, judging by the kicked puppy look Scott was giving him. Damn. He really needed to stop thinking of his best bro as a puppy; soon he wouldn't be able to resist the dog jokes, and Scott always got so offended by those.

“I'm sorry.” Scott started.

“Dude, it's okay. No really,” he added as the puppy eyes ramped up. “You're totally allowed to have other friends. And I know you mostly spend time looking for Boyd and Erica.

“How's that going by the way?”

Scott was clearly still feeling guilty, but visibly put it aside. “Not good. We haven't found a single trace of them. It's like they just vanished. Gerard too.”

“Well, that's not at all comforting, but about what I was expecting. Derek said he couldn't find anything either, and I guess as an alpha, he'd have better senses. Not to mention way more practice at tracking.”

Scott finally lost the guilty look in favor of a grumpy one. He wondered how badly Scott would react if he told him it made him look like Derek. Not that it actually did, Scott just didn't have the eyebrows to pull off the patented Derek Hale Brood.

“Why were you talking to Derek? When were you talking to Derek?” Scott growled. Well, not literally growled, Stiles was well acquainted with what that sounded like, but in the whole unhappy human way that people do when they're really annoyed.

“Uh, cause he asked me to help with the whole alpha pack thing.” Stiles waved one hand dismissively.

“What! Why? You shouldn't be involved in that. How do you even know about that?”

“Because he told me. Which you would know if you ever answered your phone. Or, I don't know, checked your messages.” Stiles rolled his eyes.

Scott completely ignored that. You'd think Stiles had texted it to him. “I can't believe he's dragging you into this!”

“Dude, chill. He's not dragging me into anything.” Scott opened his mouth, but Stiles just kept talking. “I asked him what I could do to help. I know I can't do tracking shit like you guys can, but I care about what happens to Erica and Boyd too. And I'm definitely very invested in finding out what happened to Gerard.

“I wanted to do something, to help, so I asked.” Stiles shrugged, ignoring Scott's glower. “He asked me to do research on the Alpha Pack. It's not a big deal. Why are you freaking out?”

“I'm not freaking out,” Scott lied, badly. Stiles still had no idea how Scott had pulled off his master plan without Gerard at least suspecting something was up. He was kinda disappointed in himself that he'd missed it too.

“I just don't think you should be spending time with Derek.”

“I'm not spending time with Derek. I look shit up, he demands answers with his eyebrows, and then he goes away. It's really not a big deal.”

Scott didn't look convinced. “Look, I know you don't like the guy, but he's not a bad dude.”

“You didn't seem to think that when you said we should let him die.”

Stiles stared blankly for a moment, but Scott wouldn't meet his eyes. He was totally lost and really had no clue how they'd ended up here. He shoved another bite of pizza in his mouth to give himself time to think.

“Okay, look, it's not like I was actually serious. And even if I had been, I didn't know him then.”

“And you know him now?” Stiles nearly flinched; apparently Scott could do sarcasm just fine with the right motivation.

“Better than I did. Enough to know that for all the mistakes he's made, he's trying to do the right thing.”

“The right thing! He keeps trying to kill people!” Scott shouted. They both paused at the unexpectedly loud sound, looking up at the ceiling guiltily. After a long moment of silence sans irate mother they looked back at each other.

“I don't remember you complaining about him killing Peter. In fact, I remember you wanting to do it yourself.”

“Dude, that is totally different.” Scott was really scowling now, looking a little wolfy around the edges.

“No, it's really not. Except the part where you wanted to kill Peter to cure yourself, not to stop him from killing more people.”

Scott's face closed down so fast Stiles nearly missed the hurt look. He sighed and started to scrub his face before remembering he had pizza grease on his hands. Ugh.

“Dude, I'm not saying you were wrong or anything. Peter needed to be stopped, and I can understand why you'd want to be human again.” Stiles might not have before, but that definitely wasn't the case anymore. He paused to take a deep breath and resolutely pushed all that away.

“I'm just saying, Derek's not a bad dude. Yeah, he makes a lot of mistakes, but it could be so much worse.”

“Really,” Scott said flatly.

“Yeah, really, Scott. You do remember what it was like when Peter was alpha don't you? And after all the research I've been doing, I've realized there are way worse alphas than Derek could be if he tried.

“Dude, seriously,” Stiles continued when Scott didn't budge. “There are so many alpha horror stories out there. And yeah, a lot of them are hunter propaganda, but some of the stuff I found is from reliable sources, man.

“Like, sometimes when an alpha makes a new pack of bitten wolves, he'll like, use them as a harem, or worse, for breeding.”

Scott finally broke, scrunching his face up in disbelief. “I'm serious, they like, totally try to make born werewolves with all the females. Or males if they're female, I guess. It's disturbing.”

Stiles paused to wonder if he was helping or hurting his case, well, Derek's case really, by trotting all that shit out. Whatever, Scott needed to know, or at least Stiles needed to tell someone. The images had been freaking him out for a while now. Inflicting them on someone else was sure to make him feel better.

“And not every pack is okay with having human members. Some will kill any babies that are born human, or bite them even though when they're that young they're more like to die than turn. And man, in some places,” Stiles shuddered. “It's sick how far they'll go to keep from having human kids.”

Scott tried to raise one eyebrow in question, but he had yet to master the skill the way Derek had. Stiles answered with just one word. “Inbreeding.”

“Ugh, that is so wrong.” Scott looked at the piece of pizza he was holding before setting it back down. Stiles crammed more into his mouth. One thing running with 'wolves had accomplished was more or less curing his weak stomach.

“Okay. I'll concede that Derek could be way worse.” Scott finally said. “But I still don't like him. And I don't think you should be helping him.”

Stiles stifled a sigh. “Okay, I get that. But helping Derek is the best way to help Erica and Boyd. _And_ Isaac.” He gave Scott a pointed look when he opened his mouth. “They're all still a part of his pack. Helping them kinda automatically helps him, and vice versa.”

“Ugh, I know. I just wish it didn't.” Scott complained.

“Dude, I know you've never been Derek's biggest fan, but I thought you didn't hate him anymore.” Stiles was honestly confused.

“Dude, of course I still hate him. He's the reason I'm still a werewolf!”

Stiles did flinch then. “Scott, I know you didn't ask to be a werewolf, and I am so, so sorry I got you into this,” Stiles said softly.

“What? Stiles, no. It's not your fault.”

“Yeah, it is.” Stiles held a hand up when Scott tried to talk. “You know you never would've been out in the woods if it wasn't for me. I'm sorry, and I know you don't blame me. But dude, you've got to stop blaming Derek, too.”

Scott's mouth snapped shut. “He didn't drag you out to the woods that night. I did. He wasn't the one who bit you. That's all on Peter. I know he was the first werewolf you really knew, and he was an ass, but none of this was his fault.”

“It's his fault I'm still a werewolf though.” Scott pushed his chin out stubbornly, making his lopsided jaw more noticeable. Stiles shook his head, telling himself to concentrate. If he'd known they were going to have such a serious discussion, he would've taken his Adderall before coming over.

“Scott, there is no guarantee that would have worked. He _told_ you that. And everything I've found says it's just a legend.”

Scott's expression didn't change, if anything it got darker. Stiles decided to let it go. For now, anyway. Someday, someone was going to have to talk to Scott about accepting the fact that he was a werewolf now, and that that wasn't going to change. Stiles had a horrible feeling it was going to be him. Which sucked, 'cause if he was lecturing Scott about accepting what he was, he would end up feeling like a giant hypocrite given his plans to ignore his newly discovered sealy-ness.

Damn. And now that he'd realized that he was going to have to take his own advice.

But not right now. Right now there was pizza, and after that more video games. He would deal later.

* * *

Dinner with dad was quiet and awkward. Stiles couldn't stop thinking about what he'd discovered and was afraid every time he opened his mouth he'd blurt out the truth.

Dad clearly knew something was up, but didn't press for details. Stiles wasn't sure if he was playing the waiting game, or if he just couldn't stand the idea of being lied to again. Which just made Stiles feel guiltier and made dinner even more awkward.

Thankfully, and he felt terrible for that, dad was working a double; the department was still short staffed. Stiles left the station as soon as he could without looking totally suspicious. Not that he thought that would keep his dad from worrying. But at least there wouldn't be gossip about it.

When Stiles walked in, the silence of the house was oppressive in a way it hadn't been in years. He delayed going up to his room as long as possible, doing laundry, cleaning the kitchen, making another mental note that he really needed to pick up groceries.

Finally, after cleaning the grout in the bathroom, he couldn't put it off any longer. He stood in his doorway for a long time, staring at the journal, still where he'd dropped it, before getting disgusted with himself. It was just a book. It couldn't do anything to him. Didn't do anything to him.

He stalked forward, grabbed it up and dumped it on his desk as he sat down. He ignored it as he woke up his laptop. The best way to deal with this was to find as much information as he could. Once he knew what he, what he was, he could figure out how to deal with it.

He went through his history, reopening all the sites he'd only skimmed before with info about selkies. And started a search on seals, just to be thorough. It was time to learn about his heritage. About his mom. Stiles took his Adderall, swallowing dry. He'd need all the help he could get tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

Several hours later, Stiles knew far more than he'd ever wanted. He still felt sick knowing that some dude had stolen his mom's skin and forced her to marry him. Or maybe just date him, all the stories were pretty dated, back before people lived together without being married. Either way, his mom was, had probably been forced to have sex with “that man.”

He wanted to find the bastard and kill him. He would do it, he knew he could; after all he'd helped set Peter Hale on fire. Thinking of that reminded him that apparently it hadn't taken. Stiles didn't know where Peter was now, but he wasn't currently causing trouble so Stiles figured he could wait until Gerard and the Alpha Pack were dealt with.

Shit. He actually had enough enemies that he needed a waiting list. How the hell was that his life? Whatever. Right now he was dealing with the whole seal thing. Or rather not dealing.

Okay. Clearly he wouldn't be able to think about any of that clearly as long as he was thinking about some faceless dude hurting his mom. Stiles took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Again. Again.

Once he was no longer feeling quite so homicidal, he purposely set aside the whole mom issue to think about later. Right now he just needed to focus on what being a selkie meant for him. He couldn't change what had happened to his mom, but he needed to decide what he was going to do with his skin.

God, that sounded so wrong. His skin.

“My skin.” Saying it out loud didn't make it any less weird. “I can turn into a seal. I have a seal skin, and if I put it on I will turn into a seal.”

Stiles frowned down at his hands, that just made him sound crazy. But there wasn't any other explanation. Why would his mom say the skin was his if it wasn't? Why hide the skin and journal somewhere he was unlikely to find them if it was some weird joke?

Beside, he had felt compelled to put the skin on when he touched it. It had to be magic, which meant it was all real. He was going to have to deal with it, ignoring it could only end badly. All the stories he'd read about selkies said that whoever had their skin could compel them. And the only way to escape was to get their skin back so they could return to the sea. Not that the stories called it an escape. Stiles was still pissed that Wikipedia referred to selkies as 'faithless lovers.'

But, that couldn't be right. His mom left “that man” but she didn't go back to the sea. She came to Beacon Hills. Married his dad, had him. Stiles stared at the journal for a long time before turning away. It might have more answers for him, but he wasn't ready to read it again. He still felt raw thinking about that last entry. About the obvious terror his mom had felt at almost losing him.

“Shit, I nearly swam away with a bunch of seals,” Stiles couldn't believe it. But the dream, the one he'd always assumed was about the day he'd almost drowned, had never felt like a nightmare. And the images had always seemed strange, surreal, but he'd always put that down to the fact that it was a _dream_. Dreams, even ones based on memory, rarely made sense.

Stiles shook himself, only realizing once he looked up that he'd headed for his door.

Could he? No. That was a terrible idea. But. He needed to understand. What better way than by becoming a selkie. Well, he probably was and always had been a selkie. But if he put the skin on, he would know what that _meant_.

After a moment of indecision, Stiles rushed out the door and down the stairs. It took only a moment to wedge himself in the closet and retrieve the chest. He ran back upstairs and set it on his bed, reaching for the lock picks before stilling. He looked around his room. It was mostly clean, but full of stuff that a seal couldn't use but could easily break. Also, it might be best to do it near water, someplace he could swim.

The lake.

Decision made, Stiles grabbed everything he needed, chest strangely light in his arms and locked up. All the way to the lake he had to force his attention back to the road, kept catching himself staring at the chest. It was with relief that he arrived at the secluded beach his mother always took him to. It was hard to believe he'd been there just last week with Scott and Isaac. It seemed like an eternity.

He nearly fell getting out of Betty, too determined to do this before he lost his nerve. He went around to the passenger side, picked the lock on the chest and eased it open. He stared at the skin, the faint moonlight barely illuminating it.

He pulled it out carefully. As soon as he touched it the urge to wrap himself in it returned. He ignored it as best he could and walked towards the water. He stopped just past the high tide line, toeing off his sneakers. He set the skin down beside him so he could strip as fast as possible. He wasn't sure it was necessary, but in the stories the selkies were always naked when they took off their skins. Better safe than sorry.

Once stripped, Stiles shivered. It wasn't far enough into summer to stay hot that long after the sun had set, but it was still pretty warm. Mostly it was being naked in public, where anyone could see him. Admittedly the chances of anyone else being at the lake at this time of night were slim, and it was even less likely they'd be on this particular beach, but still. The possibility existed and was seriously creeping Stiles out.

He took a deep breath, then wrapped the skin – his skin – around himself. For a moment nothing happened, then warmth burst through his body. He abruptly found himself on all fours, but didn't remember falling. He attempted to stand up, but didn't get far, nearly falling flat on his face as he overbalanced.

Slower, he pushed up again, to what felt like a natural position. Carefully he looked down shocked to see smooth fur and large flippers. He stared at them dumbly for a long moment; part of him hadn't truly believed, despite the evidence, that he was anything other than human. Stiles laughed, then stopped short, caught off guard by the sharp bark that rattled out of him.

Stiles turned to look at the rest of himself, a little surprised and disconcerted when his neck bent back, allowing him an upside down view. His body was indeed that of a seal, though the light wasn't good enough for him to pinpoint what type. The only thing he could see for sure was he wasn't large enough to be an elephant seal; beyond that he was clueless, and quite annoyed. Next time he'd have to change in front of a mirror. Or maybe a camera or something.

Stiles blinked, he hadn't realized he was already planning a next time, that there would be a next time. He shook himself, weirded out by how naturally the movement felt. Looking around him, he was annoyed to notice that while details of stuff up close were a bit sharper, he couldn't see all the way to the other side of the lake like he could before. He listened carefully, but either there just wasn't much sound going on out there, or his hearing wasn't much better either.

The only benefit he could detect was the fact that he was warmer now, and he could smell things more sharply than before. Aside from the water he couldn't really identify anything though and was stymied whether that was because he didn't have a lifetime's experience or if it was something else. Stiles grumbled to himself, trying not to pay attention to the little growls that produced. Instead he decided to try out swimming.

Getting to the water was a weird complicated process that felt like he was a giant inch worm or something. The water felt strange, almost distant, not the cool rush he was used to. He splashed awkwardly in the shallows, but as soon as he was deep enough to swim, his body took over. He exhaled before diving under the water, front flippers seeming to pull him forward.

He closed his eyes automatically, surprised to realize he could still see before he remembered reading that seals had nictitating membranes. He could see under the water better than he ever had as a human, just as well as he had sitting up on shore. He tried to laugh again, but found his throat closed. Panicking, he quickly surfaced, relieved to feel his throat and nostrils opening.

He bobbed in the water for a while, breathing and trying to adjust to just how not-weird everything felt. He really didn't need to think at all, his body seemed to just know what to do. Or maybe it was muscle memory, the seal body remembering what it had felt like even though it had been over a decade since he'd last swam in his skin.

Calm again, Stiles flipped over, determined to find out what being a seal really meant. He dived down, further than he'd ever been while human, only pulling up when he was in danger of hitting bottom. Looking around, he realized he could still see quite well. There was less light here than at the surface, but the lake wasn't nearly deep enough to be truly dark.

Twisting about he headed back to the surface as fast as he could, rocketing out of the water rather than stopping. For a long, endless moment, he hung in the air, arched above the water, weightless and free. Then he splashed under again, diving and twirling, wanting to see just what this body of his could do.

* * *

Stiles broke the surface, breathing in, blinking in the bright light. He stared blankly before realizing it must be morning. He'd noticed that he could see more and more as time passed, but hadn't really connected that to the passing time. It hadn't seemed important. There were fish to catch and things to discover, like the remains of a canoe with a hole big enough for him to swim through.

He knew that that meant something, though he couldn't quite remember what. Morning. It was morning, that's why it was light again. Shit, he needed to go. Even this early in summer people would be out on the water soon. Not many people used his beach, but the lack of swimmers would make it more enticing to boaters.

He'd be seen if he stayed here; that would be bad, though he couldn't quite remember why. He headed to the secluded beach he'd discovered, the one bracketed by huge boulders, accessible only by water. The further he drew away from his beach, the stranger he felt. Something was wrong, he was going the wrong way. But if he went back to his beach, he might be seen.

He continued forward, slowly, trying to figure it out. Ahead was safety, someplace he could sleep and warm himself in the sun. Back at his beach he might be seen and what was there? Nothing he couldn't find while hidden from the humans. It was just the place he went to with his mother, and she was dead now, she wouldn't be there. Dad wouldn't be either, he'd never come with them, too busy and not much of a swimmer anyway.

Shit. Dad. He was at home, sleeping, and would wake to find him gone. He turned around, swimming as fast as he could. He floundered on the beach, wiggling towards his clothes, desperate to get home before his dad missed him.

It was only once he'd made it completely out of the water that he realized he had no idea how to change back. He'd wrapped himself in his seal skin to change the first time, but he hadn't left behind a human skin when he did so. He tried to unwrap his skin, but his flippers just flopped uselessly, sending him tumbling to his side.

He wiggled himself upright again, trying to think. But all he could see was dad's face, raw with grief the way it had been when mom died. He was distantly aware he was making a lot of noise, barks, and chirps and whistles, but he couldn't make himself stop, couldn't care about the attention it might bring.

He tried taking deep breaths, and letting them out slowly, but couldn't seem to figure out how to regulate his breathing. Instead he focused on his dad, on how much he wanted to see him, to hug him, to bury his face in dad's shoulder and breathe him in, let him take all his worries and fears away, even if only for a moment.

A shock of cool air snapped his mind back to the present. He could feel a breeze blowing across his chest where the skin gaped. He exploded out of the skin, falling painfully on his side as his legs tangled. He kicked furiously until he was free and crawled as far away as he could before collapsing in exhaustion.

Stiles didn't know how long he lay there, but the sky was noticeably brighter by the time he forced himself to sit up. His arms shook violently, barely holding him until he was upright. A glance around showed that no one had found him yet. He scooted over to his clothes, needing to stop half way to breath.

An eternity later he was dressed, only then noticing he was completely dry. Shrugging off the weirdness, too tired to deal with it right then, he slowly pushed himself to his feet. He swayed, eyes closed against the dizziness. Once he felt like he could move without falling over, he walked over the where his skin was abandoned just above the waterline.

He stared at it for a long time before stooping to grab it. As much as he never wanted to touch it again, leaving it where anyone could find it and use it against him would be even worse. He balled it up, trying not to think about anything as he headed back to his Jeep.

Once the skin was safely locked in the chest, he slumped in the driver's seat, forehead resting on the steering wheel. While he hadn't really felt tired while in the water, he could feel the effects of a night of physical activity now. He was exhausted, and probably shouldn't be driving. But he needed to get home, and soon, and anyone he called to come get him would ask too many questions. Groaning, he sat back, started Betty, and swung back around to the road.

Thankfully he didn't pass many cars on the way back to the house, and no one who would recognize his Jeep. It wasn't long before he was pulling up to the house and parking. It took way too long to convince himself to actually get out and go inside. As tempted as he was to leave the chest there, he lugged it inside, still too paranoid about someone finding it.

He dragged himself inside, not bothering to be quiet. His father slept like the dead, and the only thing that would wake him before his alarm was the phone. Mom had always joked about it, how a cop could be so unalert, and Stiles was never more grateful at just how easy I was to sneak in and out of the house.

He stumbled up the stairs, kicking his shoes off as soon as he was through his door. He dumped the chest on his desk, stumbling over to his bed, dropping down on the edge. He popped the button on his jeans before laying back and wiggling out of them. He thought about rolling over and pulling his legs up, but fell asleep before he could.

* * *

Stiles was stiff when he woke up, he groaned and stretched to work out the kinks from sleeping in such an odd position. Pushing himself to his elbows, the first thing he saw was the chest. It was sitting on his desk, partially on top of the journal, looking innocent and unremarkable. Stiles didn't feel nearly ready to deal with it, so he scrubbed his face and wandered out of his room.

After a quick pit stop in the bathroom, he ambled downstairs. A glance outside showed his dad was gone. Stomach growling loudly, Stiles headed for the kitchen to make breakfast. Lunch? Breakfast? Whatever, it was the first meal since he woke up, so it was breakfast. A quick rummage of the cupboards produced a box of cereal - whole grains, almond slices, and sweet little cluster things – but no milk. He vaguely remembered that he had planned to go shopping yesterday, but had forgotten in the 'I'm a fucking seal' freak out.

He ate the cereal dry, wandering back upstairs. He showered and dressed, popping his Adderall before heading out. He would have to buy groceries if he didn't want his dad ordering unhealthy take out and he could really use something to make him feel ordinary right then. No one could feel anything but mundane while deciding between the merits of 1% and skim milk; it was a proven fact.

The store was reassuringly normal with nothing unexpected or supernatural inside. There were just the usual aisles full of packaged crap and a tiny meat and produce section. His fellow customers were familiar and unremarkable, not a werewolf, kanima or selkie among them. Well, as far as he knew.

He spent far too long waffling back and forth between getting some apples for a pie, or strawberries for shortcake, wondering which one would make dad less suspicious. Deciding it was a loss either way, he grabbed the apples. Shortcake would remind him too much of his mother, and he wasn't ready to deal yet.

Checkout was fast despite there only being one register open. Apparently the middle of the day on a Thursday wasn't a popular time for shopping. At least, he thought it was Thursday. Without school to worry about and with all the recent weirdness, he wasn't actually sure. Not that it mattered since he really didn't have anywhere to be.

Groceries bought and paid for, he lugged everything out of the cart and into the backseat. He was peripherally aware of someone walking up the aisle towards him, but was more focused on playing grocery Tetris. It wasn't until they spoke that he paid them any attention. He froze, recognizing the voice. One part of his mind screamed at him to run, another demanded he turn around, that he couldn't have possibly heard what he thought he'd heard, while another tried to tell him if he couldn't see the monster, it couldn't see him.

Before he could decide what to do, he felt a prick at his neck, and everything went dark.

* * *

The first thing Stiles noticed when he woke up, was that his nose itched like crazy. He tried to scratch it, but only ended up slapping himself in the face. The shock snapped him out of his fog to the realization he was laying on a cold hard surface somewhere he definitely didn't remember going.

Pushing himself upright was difficult, and he fell back more than once before achieving vertical status. Looking at everything upright didn't help much. He was in a small, bare room with no windows and only one door, through which the only light was shining. Stiles decided if he wanted answers, he was probably going to have to go where there was something more to see.

After several failed attempts to stand, Stiles crawled over to the nearest wall. Each brush of bruised hands and knees against concrete brought renewed clarity. He used the wall as support to lever to his feet, trying to _think_. He didn't remember how he'd gotten there, so what _did_ he remember? He remembered swimming, he remembered going home, he remembered shopping. He didn't remember anything after shopping. What had happened? How did he get here? Why was he here?

Stiles leaned against the unforgiving wall until his legs stopped feeling like noodles. He staggered slowly towards the door, feeling unsteady and drunk. He made it to the door, banging his shoulder into the frame, over-correcting as he wobbled. He stayed there, eyes shut, breathing deep.

Before he could move any farther, something grabbed him, tossing him back into the little room he'd almost escaped. He landed painfully on his side, barely avoiding braining himself. He tried to roll onto his back, hip and shoulder throbbing, but was too weak and winded to move.

“Hello, Stiles,” a frighteningly familiar voice said. Stiles slowly opened his eyes, rolling his head until he could clearly see Gerard where he crouched above him.

The elderly hunter looked much better than the last time Stiles had seen him, but then it was hard to look worse than spewing black blood. One noticeable difference was his eyes. One was the yellow gold he was getting used to seeing on most of his werewolf friends. The other was a sickly orangish yellow with a slitted pupil like the kanima.

Stiles' breath caught in his chest, stunned to see his worst nightmare made flesh so close to him. He wasn't sure what it said about him that he feared an elderly – formerly – human more than anything else he'd run into; more than rogue alphas, kanimas, or even Allison's mom. (He knew he should feel bad that she was dead, he knew what it was like to lose a mother, but he was too glad that that was one less person that would be trying to kill Scott and the others.)

Before Stiles could recover his wits, Gerard was reaching out. Stiles flinched back, but was unable to keep Gerard from grabbing him by the throat. He pulled Stiles up, dragging him over to a wall so he could slam him into it.

“Here we are, all alone, with you at my mercy and no one coming to save you. Brings back fond memories doesn't it?” Stiles tried not to think about what Gerard was saying, focused instead on trying to pry his hand off his throat. Unfortunately, Gerard seemed to be even stronger than the last time he'd attacked Stiles.

“How long do you think it'll be before anyone notices you're missing,” Gerard leaned in, hissing right into his face. Stiles could only stare in horrified fascination as scales rippled across the skin of his face, disappearing as quickly as they appeared.

Stiles struggled harder, he had no idea what Gerard was now, but he wanted as far away from him as possible.

“Since I have plans with Scott, they're probably looking already,” Stiles wheezed with the last of his breath.

“Now why don't I believe that? Maybe because I can hear you lying.” Gerard paused, as much a drama queen as ever. “Or maybe, it's because I know just how unimportant you are.”

Stiles tried to refute that, but Gerard's grip had tightened enough to completely cut off his air. He kicked out, desperate to make him let go, but he'd been too weak to fight Gerard even before the wacko had gotten a supernatural upgrade.

Spots started dancing on the edges of his vision, and his struggles grew weak by the time Gerard finally released him. He slid down the wall, sucking in air as fast as he could. He knew he needed to slow down and breath deeper or risk hyperventilating, but it was hard to fight against the instinct to get as much air as quickly as possible.

Once he'd finally regained control, he looked up to see Gerard prowling between him and the door, muttering and gesturing to himself. The man moved smoothly, seeming to have lost the minimal stiffness of old age he'd displayed in previously. His turns were quick and agile in a way that let Stiles know the Bite had taken.

But what did the freaky eyes and scales mean? Clearly something had gone wrong. Maybe it like with Matt, who had started to turn into the kanima because he had abused its power. And what about the mountain ash Scott had slipped him? Stiles had honestly thought Gerard was going to die, what with spewing up copious amounts of black goo.

“If I'm so unimportant, then why'd you take me?” Stiles asked when it became apparent that Gerard wasn't going to monologue at him like a proper villain. He hated to draw his attention, but he really needed to know.

“You may not be important now, but once you're dead?” Gerard smiled, revealing a double row of sharp little fangs. “Oh, you'll be important then.

“The Sheriff's own boy, torn apart like so much meat; you'll be the talk of the town.” Gerard stopped pacing, gliding over to him, leaning too close for comfort. There was nothing sane left in his freaky mismatched eyes; Pluto would be too close for comfort. “There will be nowhere in this town they won't be able to overhear the gossip and know that you died screaming for them.”

Stiles flinched away from the hand Gerard dragged down his check, claws out but thankfully free of venom.

“They'll come to me, they won't be able to stop themselves. And then I'll put them down like the rabid dogs they are.”

“Dude, I'm pretty sure you're the only one that needs to be put down.” Stiles tried to force out his fear with anger. “There's no place for a freaky mutt like you.”

Gerard moved so fast, Stiles didn't even see the blow coming, didn't even know what had happened until he was slumped over spitting out blood.

“I'll make sure you suffer before you die. The more pain you feel, the more they'll suffer.”

Gerard smiled gleefully, looking deranged with his mouth full of fangs and mismatched eyes. He left without another word, leaving the door open. Stiles stayed slumped against the wall, cradling his aching jaw, mind spinning. Every time he tried to focus on something, his mind dragged up the image of scales flowing across Gerard's skin. He poked at his teeth, relieved that at least none of them had been knocked out.

A loud crash finally snapped his mind back to the present. Slowly and carefully, he pushed up again, leaning against the wall for support as he inched around to the door. Glancing out, he couldn't immediately see Gerard, but he could hear him. He seemed to be shouting something but Stiles couldn't make out what, or at whom. He didn't think he'd been out long enough for anyone to miss him yet, and he doubted even Gerard's crazy ass hunters would be working with the mutt monster.

He needed to get out of there, but he doubted he could as long as Gerard was in hearing range. If Stiles could hear _him_ , no doubt the man's supernatural hearing would be more than up to tracking his every move. And he doubted there'd be any weapon he could find in wherever the hell he was that would be useful. Even if Gerard had been senile enough to leave one of his guns laying around, Stiles doubted it would work. The man seemed to be part kanima now and bullets, wolfsbane or otherwise, hadn't had much effect on Jackson.

Still, Stiles couldn't stand to just wait around for his fate. He cautiously shuffled out of his room over to what looked like a stack of crates. Navigating slowly around them, he finally got a good look at where he was. It looked like a warehouse, dusty and empty enough that it was probably abandoned. Not that that meant much since there was a surprising number of those in Beacon Hills.

But there was one thing that stood out. Well, two really. One was the big ass hole where Stiles had driven Betty through the wall. The other was the icky black stains were Gerard had meet his seeming doom. He was at the warehouse, that same fucking warehouse, where everything had gone down. Stiles had sincerely never wanted to see that shit hole again, but there he was anyway, with Gerard fucking Argent for company.

“Get over here!” Gerard shouted. Stiles jumped, flailing his way to the ground behind the crates. A long moment of nothing followed. Another minute passed, and still nothing.

Stiles poked his head around the corner, carefully looking for the crazy old dude. He couldn't see him anywhere, but he could vaguely hear him talking. Knowing it was probably going to get him killed, but needing to know anyway, Stiles crawled forward, keeping as concealed as possible.

An eternity later he was finally close enough to hear what Gerard was saying. He seemed to be relaying instructions to someone, but Stiles still couldn't hear anyone else. A quick glance showed Gerard standing off by himself, gesturing at thin air. Stiles frowned, as far as he could tell, Gerard wasn't using a phone either. What the actual fuck?

“Excellent. And no one suspects you. Good.” Gerard said, apparently to himself. “I've got a new assignment for you. In Beacon Hills. They're an old pack, complacent. They'll never see you coming.”

That sounded like. No, that _was_ Gerard ordering the hit on the Hales. One that took place over six years ago. Dude had finally completely lost it. He might have been crazy before, but he'd always been coherent.

“Christopher, Christopher.” Stiles leaned back, thoroughly freaked out. “You always were so soft. You're such a disappointment. Not like Kate. Kate knew how to get things done, but you? You're nothing but a bleeding heart. Weak.”

Stiles really, _really_ needed to get out of there. Gerard was bad enough when he was mostly sane, now that he'd lost the plot, Stiles didn't want to know what he was capable of. He slowly worked his way back towards his room, hoping he could find a way out that didn't involve passing Gerard to crawl out of the Jeep shaped hole. His eyes flickered frantically, trying to find a weapon, or anything even vaguely useful. He patted down his pockets, not sure what he expected to find, but surprised to realize he still had his cell.

His first instinct was to call his dad, and he barely managed to stop himself. There was nothing his dad could do against Gerard, and he wasn't going to get him killed. Plus, there was no way Gerard wouldn't hear him the second he started talking.

Not finding another exit, Stiles retreated to the room he'd woken in, carefully closing the door. He fired off a text to Scott, and then immediately another to Derek. He loved Scott, they were brothers, but he was realistic enough to know the odds of Scott reading his text in time to be of any help were really fucking slim.

Hell, he'd text Isaac and _Peter_ if he knew their numbers and he'd rather jump off a bridge than ask Peter for help. He really needed to get Isaac's number, _yesterday_. He probably wouldn't ignore Stiles, and since he was always with Scott, he'd totally make him come rescue him. Instead, all his hope was resting on Derek. Odd as it was, that actually made him feel better.

Message sent, Stiles headed back out. While he trusted Derek to come for him, there was no way he'd be able to just wait around doing nothing without going crazy. There was no telling how long it would be before Derek got there, and he needed to be doing something keep his mind occupied.

A more thorough look around the crates on his end of the warehouse didn't produce anything useful but plenty of disturbing. Judging by what he'd stepped in, he'd found out who was responsible for the animal mutilations. He spent a good few minutes trying to throw up quietly.

Once he finally stopped he wiped his mouth with the hem of his shirt, pausing to listen for Gerard. He still seemed to be ranting at air, so Stiles staggered away from the proof that he hadn't developed a cast iron stomach just yet.

Venturing in another direction, tracking Gerard by his crazy ranting, Stiles poked through some piles of junk. The sticky sound his left shoe made with every step made his stomach roil, and he made a mental note to burn these shoes as soon as possible.

“The boy, yes. That's your way in. They're all stupid at that age, you'll have no problem leading him by his dick. Then you can put them down like they deserve.”

Stiles stopped, confused as hell before his mind started putting together pieces he hadn't even realized he had. Derek's guilt, excessive even for the sole survivor of his family. His insistence that Scott and Allison's relationship would end badly. How the hell a bunch of people managed to get close enough to burn down a house full of people with supernatural senses.

Kate had seduced Derek and used him to get close enough to kill his family. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_! That was. Fuck! That was so awful Stiles couldn't really wrap his mind around it. It certainly made a lot of Derek's behavior make a lot more sense. No wonder he hadn't trust Stiles. _Refused_ to trust Stiles, or anyone really. Except maybe Scott, and wow, had Scott fucked that up.

Stiles shook himself, forcing himself to push it to the back of his mind. He didn't have the time to deal with it right then. He needed to focus on staying alive and escaping.

* * *

Ten minutes later, and still no one had arrived. Stiles was starting to give up hope that Derek was actually coming. What if he didn't care? Or hadn't charged his phone? _How_ would he even charge it? Where was Peter getting the power for his laptop for that matter? Shit, he was gonna die cause all his friends were dumbasses who ignored their phones and/or lived in abandoned buildings without power.

And the most useful things he'd found in his search were a box cutter that looked depressingly dull, and a heavy pipe. Not exactly inspiring weapons against a werewolf, or whatever the fuck Gerard was now. Still, they were better than nothing. Maybe.

Who was he kidding; stick a fucking fork in him, he was done.

Inching around another pile of useless junk, Stiles realized he couldn't hear Gerard's crazy ramblings anymore. Pausing to think, it'd been several minutes now since he'd stopped giving orders to invisible people. Stiles looked behind him, fully expecting Gerard to be there. He let his breath out slowly when he realized he was still alone.

He inched his way to the end of the aisle he was in, flattening himself to the end before easing his head around to check out the next one. He was meet with mismatched eyes.

“Fuck!” Stiles flailed back, nearly losing his grip on the pipe. Only Gerard grabbing his arm kept him from another painful fall to the floor.

“Now, what do we have here?” Gerard drawled, pulling Stiles entirely too close for comfort. “If it isn't Scott's little friend. Did he send you here to spy on me, Mr. Stilinski? He's going to regret that!”

Stiles frowned, so confused he nearly forgot to struggle as Gerard dragged him towards the open part of the warehouse.

“Maybe he needs a little refresher of what will happen if he doesn't do what I say.” Gerard threw him down, tantalizingly close to the hole in the wall. Stiles was tempted to make a run for it, even knowing he'd never be fast enough. “Maybe if I send his little friend back to him, piece by piece, he'll remember our deal.

“What do you think, Stiles? May I call you Stiles?” Gerard looked genuinely curious.

“Dude! You are seriously fucking nuts!” Stiles yelled, crab walking away as Gerard advanced.

“Now, now, now.” Gerard admonished, voice becoming a rasp as the planes of his face shifted obscenely. “That's not very polite.”

His eyebrows disappeared as his forehead bulged like any werewolves' when in beta form, but the excessive sideburns only appeared on one side. The other side was covered in scales, starting somewhere underneath his shirt, creeping up the side of his neck and over his cheek. One eye – the werewolf one – was surrounded by scales that continued across his forehead and ended just at the crown of his skull.

What Stiles could see of his arms was oddly mottled, patches of scales scattered across normal skin. He didn't see any hint of a tail, but Gerard was hunched over, his gait weird, almost limping; especially noticeable compared to his earlier grace.

Stiles fetched up against a support beam, too busy staring at the abomination before him to pay attention to where he was going. Gerard darted forward, still fast despite his awkward movements, caging Stiles in before he could escape.

“And just where do you think you're going?” Stiles couldn't tear his eyes away from Gerard's. They were flat and cold, and the most frightening thing he'd ever seen. He held his breath as Gerard leaned in, close enough he could smell blood and decay on his breath. Out of the corner of his eyes he could just make out where Gerard was gripping the beam, claws out, at least one leaking a trail of venom.

Gerard closed his eyes as he inhaled deeply. “Mmm, you smell tender. I wonder how you'll taste.”

A roar shattered the air, jerking Gerard back like he was on a string. The monster leapt up, turning to face the hole. There, limned in light, was Derek, wolfed out and looking pissed. And if he had the fleeting thought that he was the most beautiful thing Stiles had ever seen, well, no one needed to know that.

“Well, well, if it isn't the Hale boy. Looks like someone – ”

“Stiles, run.” Derek didn't wait to see if Stiles would do as he said, leaping straight at Gerard. Gerard managed to jump out of the way, scoring a hit to Derek's side as they passed. Derek grunted, but didn't slow down, merely pivoted to follow.

“Stiles!” Derek barked, jerking him out of his stupor. Stiles scrambled up, skirting around the fight, to head for the hole, skittering over debris. He ducked behind another beam to avoid a collision with Derek as he flew through the air.

The alpha rolled to his feet instantly, growling as he charged back at Gerard. Stiles peaked around the beam then immediately pulled back. Gerard had shifted even more, sporting more scales and a stumpy tail that couldn't have been of any actual use, and the way his legs bent looked all wrong.

And yet it was Derek again that was slammed into the floor. Stiles darted towards the next bit of cover, mentally urging Derek to get up. He did, with another resounding roar.

Stiles took another quick look, determined the two were far enough away, and dashed out the hole. He immediately pressed his back to the side of the building, glancing back in to see how things were going.

Not well. They were going really fucking badly. Stiles could see several spots where Derek was sporting blood if not actual wounds, but Gerard barely looked ruffled. Well, he looked like some kind of Frankenstein's monster made from werewolf and kanima bits, but that didn't seem to be holding him back. For all that his movements were awkward, he was fast as fuck and Derek just couldn't seem to land a hit.

Stiles watched, fretting, hefting the pipe he'd somehow managed to keep ahold of. He knew the chances of his actually helping were slim, but he still wanted to rush in and try to bash Gerard's skull in.

Derek ended up on his back again, and was slower to get up this time. “So this the power of an alpha? Can't say I'm impressed.” Gerard taunted.

Derek didn't respond, circling, looking for an opening. He feinted right, then went left, aiming for Gerard's legs. Gerard dodged again, landing a kick to Derek's side. The alpha went down hard, unable to get up before Gerard landed another blow, this time to his head.

Stiles winced as Gerard kicked him in the side again. Derek didn't get up.

“Pathetic, isn't it.” Gerard looked over his shoulder, straight at Stiles. “The big bad wolf, taken down by a cancer ridden grandpa. And to think I wanted to be a werewolf. Not all it's cracked up to be, is it?”

Gerard reached down, hauling Derek up by his shirt. “Kate must have been even weaker than I thought to have fucked up killing you. I really must thank you for killing her. There is no place in our family for that kind of weakness. Allison will make a much better heir.”

Gerard drew one arm back, fingers splayed, claws out; Stiles rushed forward before he could think it through. He swung the pipe as hard as he could, landing a solid hit to Gerard's head. Gerard didn't even rock from the blow. He slowly turned his head until he could peer at Stiles with one eye.

“That was a foolish mistake, Mr. Stilinski.” Stiles backed away, holding the pipe as well as he could with fingers nearly numb from the impact. Gerard dropped Derek, darting around too fast for Stiles to react. The pipe was torn from his grip and tossed aside before he could blink.

Pain exploded through his head as Gerard casually backhanded him. Stiles tried to push himself up from the floor, but the blood pounding in his temples made everything disorienting. Gerard was suddenly there, poised over him, hand on his throat.

Gerard leaned in close. “It's such a shame you were corrupted by the monsters. You might not be much of a fighter, but you're bright enough you could've been useful for tactics. Too late now I suppose. Pity.”

Stiles scrabbled for something, anything to fight back with. His hand closed on the box cutter, stilling his struggles in surprise.

Gerard leaned back slightly, and Stiles knew his arm was again drawn back and claws splayed, but he kept his eyes locked on Gerard's. The moment Gerard's eyes flicked down to his throat, he moved, shoving the cutter right into Gerard's eye. It wasn't mountain ash, but Stiles put every ounce of belief he had into it, believing with ever fiber of his being that it could hurt Gerard, would hurt him.

Gerard reared back, letting go of Stiles to clutch his face, scream morphing into an inhuman screech. Stiles didn't waste time, ignoring the liquid too thick to be just blood oozing over his fingers to rush to Derek's side. The alpha was out cold, eyes closed and breath shallow.

“Come on, Derek, wake up,” he smacked Derek's cheek. “You really need to wake the fuck up or both of us are kibble!

“Derek!”

Derek's eyelids fluttered, but didn't open. “Shit.” Stiles didn't look at Gerard, but he could hear him moving around, Stiles didn't doubt he'd recover soon. “You are so not allowed to be pissed at me for this.” Stiles punched Derek in the face before he could question himself. Just like at the vet's he did more damage to his hand than to Derek's face.

Derek jerked awake, staring at him in confusion, before lunging forward. He wrapped his arms around Stiles, twisting at the same time, putting Stiles underneath him. There was a slick thump, accompanied by a vibration that passed from Derek's chest into Stiles'. Derek grunted, letting Stiles goes so he could push back.

By the time Stiles had pushed himself up, they were back at it. It took a long moment of staring to realize their roles had been reversed. Gerard was stumbling, hits going wide, as Derek landed blow after blow. Stiles was confused until he got a good look at Gerard's face as a particularly vicious blow knocked him back.

One side of his face was a mess of black blood, leaking from his still ravaged eye. It hadn't healed at all, seemed to be festering even. The flesh around it was puffy and livid, with strange black lines radiating from it.

It looked, Stiles realized, like what had happened when Derek was shot with the wolfsbane bullet, minus the freaky purple glow. Stiles had no idea what was going on, but he thought maybe his belief had somehow worked on the mountain ash Scott had tricked him into ingesting. It must have still been in his system.

A loud crack brought his attention back to the fight. Gerard stumbled back from Derek, right arm hanging oddly, limp and dripping blood.

“Well, guess you had some fight in you after all.” Gerard laughed, high and not at all sane. He lunged forward, falling silent mid-laugh. Derek meet him, blocking Gerard's blow with one arm, while going for his throat with the other.

Stiles turned away, but it didn't stop him from hearing the wet tearing sound, oddly quiet for all that it meant the end of someone's life. He gagged, but managed to keep from throwing up again. He breathed shallowly, trying to ignore what was happening behind him, until Derek gripped his shoulder.

He looked back at him, meet alpha red eyes in a human face, and nodded. Derek nodded back. Stiles wasn't sure what they were in agreement on, but he thought maybe that was okay.

Derek steered him towards the hole, and they finally left the hell hole behind. Outside he saw the Camaro parked haphazardly, driver's door hanging open, lights on and engine running. They headed for it without a word. Stiles was ready for this day to just be over; he curled into the leather seat as soon as the belt was in place.

Though he really didn't want to deal anymore, he fished his phone out. He sent a quick update to Scott so he wouldn't think Stiles was still in trouble whenever he got around to reading his messages. He hesitated a moment, then called Allison.

The call rang so long, he wasn't sure she was going to answer. When she finally did, he didn't give her a chance to speak. “Gerard's dead.” He said shortly. “He kidnapped me, took me to the warehouse where everything went down. You'll find his body there.”

Stiles hung up before she could say anything. He was done, just done.

* * *

Stiles woke panicked, kicking blindly at an unseen threat. A touch to his shoulder made him flail forward, away from the solid warmth pressed up behind him. A strong grip prevented him from falling face first out of the bed, and pulled him back. He froze against the unknown person, heart pounding, mouth dry.

The grip shifted, became a caress, rubbing up and down his arm. Stubble brushed against the back of his neck; his muscles all relaxed at once, breath rushing out of him in a great gust.

It took several long moments of deep breathing to realize Derek was speaking softly.

“Shh, it's okay. You're okay. I've got you. Shh.” Stiles leaned back into Derek's strength, the day and his fright draining all his strength. Just as he slipped back into sleep he thought he felt the faint touch of lips on his nape.

* * *

Stiles woke much more slowly the second time. He was warm and comfortable and really wasn't ready to get up. Sadly his mind refused to cooperate with his body, insisting there was something he needed to pay attention too.

Stiles sighed, finally giving in, and tried to sit up. Tried being the operative word. It took his sleep addled mind an embarrassingly long time to realize the reason he was having trouble moving was the extremely heavy werewolf sprawled over his back.

“Derek. Derek.” Stiles huffed as well as he could while being crushed. “Hey, sourwolf! Wakey, wakey.”

Derek mumbled something, nuzzling Stiles' shoulder. Stiles blushed when he realized what he was saying, vague memories of the night before surfacing. There was no memory of how he'd ended up in bed with an alpha werewolf though. Stiles wasn't sure if he should be worried or disappointed.

He decided he was talented enough to do both.

“Derek, seriously man, get off me.” Stiles wiggled around until he could plant his elbow in Derek's gut. Derek grunted, but rolled over. Stiles patted himself on the back, just barely remembering to keep it mental as he sat up.

Once he'd achieved verticality, he cautiously looked over at his bedmate. Derek was blinking, eyes unfocused and hair mussed. He looked fucking adorable. Stiles was not caffeinated enough to deal with that.

He slithered out of bed and staggered over to his chair. He was relieved – and disappointed – to discover he was still fully dressed, missing only his shoes. He even still had his socks on. He wasn't sure why that bothered him but it did. Wearing socks to bed was only acceptable in winter.

A quick check of the time revealed it was late enough his dad would've already left. Stiles took a moment to thank baby Jesus that he hadn't checked on him that morning. He had no idea how he was going to explain his face, let alone the former murder suspect in his bed. Trying to explain both at once would've ended badly.

Like, Titanic badly.

“Soooo,” Stiles' fingers tapped against his knee. “We, uh. That is. Why, uh? How?” He flailed one hand back and forth between the bed and himself.

“You fell asleep in the car. I carried you in and put you to bed.” Derek shrugged. “Didn't think it was a good idea to leave you alone.”

Stiles squawked – there was no other word for it – nonplussed by the mental images that evoked. He could _feel_ the blush that burned his cheeks, cursing his pale complexion and deducting so many man points.

“So, uh, thanks!” Stiles cringed. He really was useless before his first cup of coffee. “For saving me. For coming for me.”

Derek grunted and ducked his head; Stiles stared at his fantastic bed head until Derek finally met his eyes. He tried to express all his gratitude and sincerity.

Derek broke their gaze, getting out of bed, somehow managing to look awkward despite his physical grace. Stiles stared openly as Derek stretched, joints popping loudly. He gave a quick shake when he was done; Stiles had to bite his lip nearly hard enough to bleed to keep the dog joke in.

“I'm going to head out.” Derek started padding out the door, only stopping to grab his shoes from where they were tossed in the corner.

“Wait,” Stiles scrambled after him. Derek paused, but didn't look back at him. “At least let me make you breakfast. It's like, _literally_ , the least I can do for you.”

The silence stretched to the straining point before Derek broke it. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Stiles repeated. “Right. Breakfast. The breaking of the fast. Hey, did you know the first breakfast cereal was invented in 1863? It didn't really catch on though, 'cause it needed to be soaked overnight. Not very convenient, right? And cornflakes were a complete accident, and originally served to crazy people. _And_ they were the first cereal on the moon, the Apollo 11 astronauts had them for breakfast.”

Derek settled at the table while Stiles opened the fridge. He frowned at the bare shelves before poking into the cupboards.

“Shit.” Stiles sighed, leaning his head against the cabinet.

“What?”

“We have no food, 'cause the groceries are sitting in my Jeep. Which is still at the store.”

Derek gripped his shoulder, shaking lightly. “Come on, I'll drive you.” Stiles followed Derek, running up to his room to cram his shoes on while Derek waited.

The drive was short and silent. Stiles was stymied for anything to say, something that rarely happened to him. Oh, he often didn't know the _right_ thing to say, but he rarely had _nothing_ to say, no matter how inappropriate.

Betty was where he'd left her, waiting patiently for him. He nearly fell out of the Camaro in his hurry to check his girl over. He stroked the driver's door, but couldn't find so much as a scratch. He opened the door, then staggered back at the stench.

“Shit. I forgot I got milk. Ugh.” Derek's nose was wrinkled and it wasn't cute. At all. It made him look constipated. No, really.

“I don't think that's the only thing that's gone bad.” Derek said.

“Aw, I'm sorry, girl. I totally didn't mean to abandon you.” He whispered, even though he knew Derek would still hear him. “I'm going to clean you so good not even a werewolf will be able to smell anything.”

He started dragging bags out of the back, digging through them for anything that didn't survive the summer heat trapped in Betty. Once all the spoiled food was transferred to one bag, Stiles stared at it dumbly, not sure what to do with it.

“Why don't you go buy replacements. I'll get rid of this.” Derek hefted the bag, striding away before Stiles could gather enough wits to respond.

Lacking any better ideas, Stiles headed for the store. It didn't take long, not many people were out and about that early. He was surprised to see Derek was still there, leaning against the Cameo like something out of a magazine ad.

He deposited the new bag on the passenger seat, then climbed in and headed home. He was only half surprised that Derek followed him. The alpha helped him unload the groceries, carrying the bulk of them in one trip.

They silently put the groceries away, Derek not even needing to ask where things went. Stiles decided not to be creeped out by that, and definitely didn't think about the implications.

Once everything was sorted, Stiles got out everything he'd need for omelets. Derek chopped onions while he started the bacon. Real bacon, since he was too young to worry about cholesterol and Derek was a werewolf. They worked in companionable silence. Well, mostly silence, with Stiles occasionally blurting out whatever random thought crossed his mind and Derek grunting.

It wasn't long before they were sitting down to eat. The food was good and the company was better. It was nice. Stiles enjoyed it more than he was willing to admit. Out loud. To someone else.

“This is nice.” Damn his inability to stop embarrassing shit from coming out of his mouth.

Derek made an inquisitive noise, but never stopped eating. Stiles smiled, it made him happy whenever someone enjoyed his cooking.

“This. Just. Spending time together. When no one's dying, or trying to kill us, or anything,” Oh god, why couldn't he ever keep his mouth shut! “We should do this more often. Not breakfast necessarily. Just. Quality non-life threatening time.”

Derek stared at him for a long moment, eyebrows raised. He seemed more surprised than anything, but Stiles didn't blame him given they spent more time snarking at each other than anything. Even if they did keep saving each others' lives.

Stiles didn't actually want to stop that, not even the lifesaving though he was rather tired of the mortal terror that came with it. Snark and lifesaving were the basis of their relationship, where would they be if that was gone?

Derek finally gave a half shrug, but Stiles hadn't really expected more of an answer than that. Silence descended once more, still nice, but not quite as easy as it was before. With nothing to distract his mind, it drifted back to thoughts of yesterday.

Stiles wasn't ready to deal with that yet, though, so he firmly pushed away the image of Gerard as he'd last seen him; still grossly transformed, throat ripped out, mismatched eyes blank.

He mentally grasped at straws, trying to think about anything else. Sadly the only other thing that came to mind was his night at the lake. He really didn't want to think about that either, but it was still leagues better than thinking about Gerard.

Though if he was entirely honest, it actually scared him more than Gerard had. Gerard may have tried to hurt him, but he'd heal, and Derek had saved him. Plus, Gerard was dead so he didn't have to deal with him anymore. Hopefully. God he hoped the fucker didn't pull a Peter.

But that night.

Well, it wasn't so much scary as awesome. Too awesome. He'd almost forgotten he was human. And even when he did remember, he didn't want to change back. Being a seal had been so easy, felt so natural. And it wasn't like he actually was a seal, he could still think, was still _him_ , but at the same time he wasn't.

He could still think, but it was, simpler, maybe. Certainly his mind hadn't been the frantic whirlwind it often was without medication. It wasn't like he had more focus, but less things he focused on.

And he hadn't exactly felt like him, either. He hadn't cared about the same things, or worried about things the way he usually did. His anxieties were such a part of him, was he really still him without them? He hadn't given a single thought to what would happen to Scott if he stayed like that, or to Derek or anyone other than his dad.

He hadn't thought about the Alpha Pack, and what they might do to the others if he wasn't there to help. Hadn't thought about what they were probably doing to Erica and Boyd right _now_ , and would keep doing until they were found. And if he'd stayed a seal, he wouldn't be any help to them.

And let's face it, he may love Scott, but there was no way he'd survive without Stiles. And though he was willing to admit Derek wasn't all bad, he made terrible life choices. Somebody had to make sure the puppies stayed alive to graduate. In fact, it was probably up to him to make sure they graduated too.

And yet, he wanted to go back. The itch beneath his skin was pulling at him, making him want to rush back to the lake, to shed his worries and live the uncomplicated life of a seal. It urged him to get into Betty and keep driving until he'd hit the ocean. To swim away and never come back, to let someone else worry about everything, take care of everyone.

The only thing stopping him, was the same thing that had pulled him back in the first place. His dad. He couldn't do that to him; couldn't leave him to wonder where Stiles went, what he'd done wrong. Who would make sure he ate right, and didn't work too much, if he left? Melissa would try, and Scott and Derek would make sure nothing supernatural happened to him, but there was only so much they could do when they all had other obligations.

No. He couldn't leave his dad. He wouldn't.

But he didn't trust himself. As long as the skin was there, where he could reach it, he'd be tempted. And he didn't have a great track record with temptation. He'd gotten his best friend turned into a werewolf because he couldn't resist the morbid allure of finding a dead body.

So he had to put it out of his reach.

He was struck with inspiration just as a touch to his shoulder snapped him out of his thoughts. Derek once again saved him from flailing his way to a massive bruise. As soon as he was sure Stiles was stable, he let go, stepping back.

Stiles ignored the warmth that lingered from his touch, and the small smile that had flitted across Derek's face.

“Dude, one of these days you're going to give me a heart attack, and then you'll have to explain to my dad that you killed me with your werewolf stealth powers.”

“Mmhm,” Derek pretended he wasn't amused, but Stiles knew better. “I'm going to head out before anyone notices me parked out front. Might be awkward for you to explain.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Stiles mumbled. “Wait. I need your help with something first. Come up to my room for a second.”

“You need my help. In your bedroom.” If Derek's voice had been any drier, it would've crackled.

Stiles squeaked, flailing madly. “No. Yes. I mean. Not like that you lecher, get your tiny alpha brain out of the gutter. Sheesh.”

Stiles turned and marched out of the room, not waiting to see if Derek would follow. Part of him was hoping he wouldn't, but mostly he just wished he wasn't such an unattractive blusher. His annoyance carried him all the way over to his desk before he abruptly deflated.

Stiles picked the chest up, cradled it against his chest. Was this really the right thing to do? Derek _did_ make horrible life decisions, should he trust him with this?

An image of Derek, wolfed out and charging without hesitation to save Stiles from Gerard, flickered behind his eyelids. He thought about how Derek had come for him, all the times Derek had put himself in danger for him. Because of him.

Yeah. He could trust him with this. Would trust him.

Decided, he turned, not remotely surprised to find Derek looming closer than any normal person would. It made him smile, which in turn made Derek frown. Stiles ignored that and shoved the chest at Derek. He took it, looking perplexed.

“I need you to keep this safe and make sure nothing happens to it,” Stiles took a deep breath. “And that I _never_ find it. _Ever_.”

Derek's confusion morphed to concern. “What is it? Is it dangerous?”

“It's my skin.” _Aaand_ he was back to confused. “My mom was a selkie. I'm a. I'm a selkie.” Stiles stared at the chest, not wanting to see Derek's reaction. “I need you to hide my skin from me, so I. So I can't leave.”

Derek was silent for a long time. Stiles dug his nails into his thighs to keep from fidgeting, bit his lip so he couldn't babble at him. Finally, just as his last nerve was about to snap, Derek gripped his chin, tilting his face up so he could see his eyes.

Derek looked – Stiles wasn't sure really, he'd never seen that look on his face before. Stunned, maybe. He hesitated to think it, but maybe there was a touch of awe. He stared into Stiles' eyes without saying a word, searching for something.

“You trust me that much?” Derek whispered. “Do you know what I could do with this?”

“It'll give you power over me. I know.” Stiles said. “But I trust you. I trust that you would _never_ use it against me. You're not like that. I trust you. With this, and with my life.”

Derek continued to stare, that same amazed look in his eyes, but tempered by fear. Stiles supposed it was a huge responsibility to ask him to take on. But Stiles believed he was up for the task. _Knew_ he was.

Derek finally looked away, nodding, clutching the chest like he was afraid Stiles would snatch it back. “Yes. Okay. I'll keep it safe for you. I promise.”

Derek sounded fierce, and sure, and deadly serious. Stiles relaxed, a tension draining from him that he only realized was there once it was gone.

“Thank you.” Stiles choked out. Derek nodded again, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

“I'm gonna go now.”

“Right. Okay.” Stiles followed Derek down the stairs and to the door. He watched him get in the Camaro and drive away, staring after him long after he was out of sight.

* * *

_I'm so sorry, John. Bożydar. I never wanted to leave you. Not even for the sea, and certainly not like this._

_The doctors don't know what's wrong, they keep telling me there is hope, but I felt it. I felt my skin burn. It's gone, and I can't live without it. It is, was, an essential part of me, even if I've been separated from it for more than ten years now. I don't know how long it will take, but I'm going to die. I don't know how to tell you. It seems cruel, to leave you with the hope that the all the doctors and medicine will be able to save me, but I don't think explaining will be any better really._

_I do wonder how it happened. ~~Did that man~~ Karol. His name is Karol. It seems silly now, that I spent so much time being afraid of him that I couldn't even write his name down. I couldn't even think it, as if that old superstition were true and thinking about him would make him appear. Well, even if he does appear, it hardly matters anymore._

_I suppose Karol must have finally given up on the idea that I'd return and burned my skin out of spite. Or maybe it was an accident, a fire that happened to burn wherever my skin was hidden. Maybe someone else did it. For all I know, Karol's been dead for years, and some relative threw my skin out and its destruction was entirely unintentional. I guess it doesn't really matter._

_I'm dying, that's all that's important really. I'll never get to see my beautiful foczka grow up, never see what kind of man he might become. What he'll do with his life. I won't see him fall in love, get married, build a family of his own. I will never hold my grandchildren in my arms. That hurts so much more than the thought of dying. Than the burning._

_And John. Oh god, John. I don't know how he'll survive this. Survive me. Already he looks hollow, and tired, and too old. Just dealing with my illness, taking care of me, of Bożydar is running him down. He's not taking care of himself, and I worry he never will. I hope that in taking care of Bożydar he will find a reason to keep going._

_Bożydar my precious foczka, it's wrong, that I should tell you the truth, tell you where I hid your skin. But John wouldn't survive losing us both, and I don't think you'd be able to resist the pull of the sea. Not when you're hurting so much yourself. The sea might offer the mercy of forgetting, but it has dangers you aren't prepared for. That I never prepared you for._

_No. You and John will need each other. So I'm going to take this secret to my grave and use what little magics I possess to protect your skin as well as I can. Talia says I should ask Deaton, but I'm not sure I can trust him. I know Talia does, but I don't know him well enough to risk my precious foczka. Perhaps if he were not so enamored of his wise and mysterious schtick things might be different._

_But they aren't. I can only trust that my magic and love will protect you. I know John will raise you well, and Talia has promised to watch over you. I suppose that's more of a guarantee than most parents ever get. I can't change what will happen, what has happened, I can only hope. I have long since learned to accept that._

_I didn't always. I was so angry, when I was dragged away from the sea. I'd been warned, about the dangers of slipping my skin, the horrors that would be inflicted upon me on the land. I'd heard the stories about what happened to selkies who let their skin be stolen, and they all ended badly. I felt like I had been cursed when I found myself in the middle of one._

_It wasn't until much later, after John, after Bożydar, that I found a few with happier endings. I didn't used to believe they could happen. But now I know they can, because I've been so happy. I regretted leaving the sea that day for so long, it was a shock when I realized I'd stopped. I could never regret anything, no matter how hard the path was that brought me here._

_Even as I lay dying, I know I'm blessed. I only have to look at them, my John and my foczka, to remember it._

**Author's Note:**

> Foczka is a Polish endearment formed from "little seal."


End file.
